EVEN TRADE
by G.E Waldo
Summary: Warnings: Non-con, blackmail, mentions of addictions, drugs, self-harm. NC-17! Adult! Summary: House becomes the object of someone's dangerous obsession, but it's Wilson's freedom that hangs in the balance.
1. Chapter 1

**EVEN TRADE**

By GeeLady

Pairing: H/O, W/O & H/W

Ratings: NC-17 Adult, SLASH, ANGSTY. (What _else_ have you ever got from me??)

Warnings: Non-con, blackmail, mentions of addictions, drugs, self-harm.

Summary: House becomes the object of someone's dangerous obsession, but it's _Wilson's_ freedom that hangs in the balance.

**This Story**: I started writing before I saw episode 6x10, and it acknowledges everything up to and including "Wilson", with the exception of Wilson and House going in together on the loft Cuddy didn't get.* In my fic', they are not living together and it continues to deviate from there.

***Kudos to Wilson for the greatest thing he has ever said or done for House: "She hurt my **_**friend**_**. She should be punished." Whew! Who would have taken Doctor W. as a caveman!?**

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**"When I'm with you I feel like I could die and that would be alright, alright."**_  
- Third Eye Blind _

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**FRIDAY (Jan' 3) 08:00**

**-**

**-**

Finally her grandmother's desk, tied up snuggly in thick blue moving blankets, was lifted, carried out in two pairs of strong man-arms through the propped open exit doors and placed on the moving truck. The office of former Dean of Plainsboro Hospital Lisa Cuddy, was now empty of her things and stripped bare of any mark of her personality.

House glanced out to the hospital entrance and saw Cuddy standing at the back of the truck, her red winter coat wrapped around her shoulders, her hands tucked into the pockets, speaking to the driver. She exposed one of them long enough to hand him a slip of paper. Directions to her new house, where she will spend her new life. New job, too, at a small medical center, a less demanding position so she could raise her daughter like a right and proper Mommy. Cuddy finished speaking to the husky fellow and he climbed into the cab of the cube truck, firing up the big diesel engine. Cuddy smoothed her hair and turned toward the entrance-way.

House hurried on, his cane and feet making a fast, but uneven escape. He had already said his goodbyes to Cuddy and he didn't want any last minute tears from her, or sarcastic slip-of-the-tongue from himself. She would probably make the rounds of good-bye and good-luck's before leaving for good. He'd hit the cafeteria and linger, though she probably wouldn't come by his office anyway.

Cuddy and Lucas were hunkered down in their new domestic arrangement, living together in a new house in a neighborhood Wilson had suggested. He'd called his third ex-wife for real estate advice, and emailed a list of good possibilities to Cuddy's In-box. House knew all this, and also that this was her last few minutes as Dean of Medicine at Princeton Plainsboro.

He hadn't met the new guy, a youngish Neurosurgeon who had been hand-picked by the Board and brought out from Seattle. He was reputed to be a brilliant physician and surgeon by the name of Rostan, Rodon, Ryan, something like that. House didn't care. At least he still had his tenure. This entire last year of treatment, counseling and staying clean had much improved his image in the eyes of the Board, and he had been granted another four years, with bi-yearly reviews.

The only bad thing about it was he would have to keep his billing up-to-date and accurate from now-on. Maybe Wilson would be willing to rent out his own assistant when ever month-end rolled around. Or he could hire a Girl Friday. A hot, young, eager to please Girl Friday. Another doe-eyed but un-jaded Cameron clone.

Wilson fell into step beside House. "Did you say goodbye to Cuddy?"

"Yup. Last week." House hurried his pace, a move he knew as futile. Wilson always managed to catch up or find him whenever he gave him the slip. House cursed his thigh for the thousandth time.

"_Last_ week? She's leaving _this_ week. Today in fact."

James Wilson or, his less well known moniker, Doctor Points-Out-The-Obvious. "Yes, I _did_ mark it on my calendar. Thus _last_ week I wished her and her perfect, non-former addict, non-former alcoholic, non-jerk of a new husband well." House said. His leg was killing him, and this little foot-race to his office wasn't helping.

"Very heart warming."

House dropped the jokes. "I said a nice goodbye." He stopped, turning his whole body to the left to stare at Wilson for emphasis, shoving his face to within an inch of Wilson's who, used to House's attempts to intimidate, did not back off. "Happy now?" House asked.

Wilson nodded, and couldn't help the look of sympathy that flashed across his face at House's defeated tone. He knew Cuddy's decision to move, and her subsequent engagement to Lucas had stung him deeply.

Wilson himself had been a little surprised at her thoughtless lack of forthrightness when it came to how she had felt about House. All the signs, including hers, had pointed to she and House eventually hooking up. Then, just as House was getting well enough, cleaned up enough, to finally do something about it, Cuddy, during an out-of-town medical conference, had pitched a hard curve ball at his head by accidentally exposing her already four-month-long involvement with Lucas which, up until then, she had been hiding. It had been a low blow, and House had returned to the hotel room looking like he'd been sucker punched.

"Are _you_?" Wilson knew it was the wrong thing to ask but he couldn't help himself. House was better but he wasn't _all_-better. He wasn't over Cuddy and Wilson knew he was feeling particularly lonely since Wilson had met Leanne and fallen head-over-heels in love. Within six months he was once again a married man. Though House had been given the green light by Nolan to live independently again, all on his own, it was obvious he wasn't doing so well with the alone part. Wilson hated that he felt guilty about that.

House, clipped and impatient, answered while trying to hurry up and limp, gunning for other floor-tiles away from Wilson's pitying look. "Peachy. What do you want, anyway? Wife number four kick you to the couch again?"

"Her name is Leanne, and no." Wilson broke off. He'd done enough damage. He switched directions, taking an alternate route to his office. "Sorry I bothered to care."

House stared after him. "So you're mad at me now?" He asked much too loudly. "No lunch today?"

Wilson cringed. They were only standing twenty feet apart, but he waved his hand, not turning back around. "No, and yes. See you at twelve."

Cuddy was gone for good and Wilson was married again. One in a while it would be nice if life would _pleasantly_ surprise him. House thrust open his glass office door and thumped to his desk, his half-way content mood soured by both encounters. He scratched at his beard. Things emoting all around him always made him itch.

His fellowships, old and new, were not yet in. There was no hurry as he currently had no patient. A really sick person better turn up fast, or he was going to take a personal day and do something to make himself feel better. Something fun, like toilet-papering Lucas and Cuddy's new suburban dream.

A pleasant "Good morning" popped House's little bubble of self-pity, and he looked up to see a man standing in his open doorway. He was keeping the door propped open with his elbow, but both hands remaining shoved in his pants pockets, the sides of his suit jacket bunched up behind them.

His visitor was a tall, very slim, and exceptionally blonde, standing there with a look of confidence, casually regarding him and his furniture. The overhead lights reflected off the fellow's head. His hair was so blond it was almost white and was already thinning though the fellow couldn't have been over thirty-five. House could see through the sparse growth to the freckled scalp. Blondie was also clean shaven, dressed in a avocado-colored, stylishly expensive suit, and veritably reeked of success.

House didn't recognize him but figured who he might be. "You Ryan?"

The fellow stepped into the room. "Royston. I'm the new Dean."

"Pleasure's all mine." House said, then returned his gaze to the haphazard papers strewn across his desk. He couldn't remember what he had been looking for. Oh yeah - _there_ it is. Cuddy's new address and home phone number. He'd conned it out of her truck driver during a previous furniture run, and all it had cost him was a twelve pack of medium priced beer. A bargain if ever there was one. He'd buy a twenty-four of Charmin on his way home. Maybe a can of black spray paint, too.

Royston's silent scrutiny made House look up again. This time he couldn't keep the irritation out of his voice. "Something you wanted?"

Royston smiled very pleasantly. "Not at all." He slowly turned on his heel, all the time keeping his eyes fixed on House's face, until finally his whole back was turned, forcing his head around to look where he was going and left, letting the door swing shut behind him.

House felt like he'd just survived a show-down with a coiled snake. The new Dean was young, wore thousand dollar suits, entered private offices without knocking and played at being inscrutable. For a new Dean, the hospital appeared to have hired a basic nightmare. "Great." House muttered.

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**FRIDAY 10:30**

A patient was admitted.

House's mind was everywhere but on this patient who, by what they knew so far, was going to turn out to be a simple dermatological infection or ingrown psoriasis. He was already bored. "Patient history?" He asked, silently cursing all Deans named Cuddy or Royston.

Thirteen read from her notes. "Patient is suffering from repeated bouts of burning rash. Topical ointments only give her relief for minutes at a time. After about a day, the rash disappears, but always reappears. No pattern to it. She's been to seven doctors and three emergency rooms for pain killers. She can't work or leave her house in bad weather - "

House blinked hard at that bit of history. "She can't leave her house in bad weather? Was one of those doctors a _psychiatrist_?"

Thirteen consulted her notes. "Um, no."

"But when its snows or the wind blows, she gets a rash?" House asked. "Wow. Sounds perfectly sane to me." He threw his hands out to his sides in a gesture of "case-closed". "Send her home."

Thirteen ignored her boss's antics. It wasn't easy but it got easier every day. "No psychiatrists. Do you want us to send Stone in?"

"No." House frowned, grabbing the chart from in front of Thirteen. "Chase." House said from behind the blue folder, "Go get a second history. Flash those pretty eyes at her and get something useful this time."

Thirteen rolled her eyes. "I took a complete history. Those were _her_ words."

"Since when do we rely on the patient's words for an accurate history?" House pointed out. "That's what she _said_, but that doesn't mean that's what it _is_." House retorted. "In the meantime you - Thirteen, and Taub, run a epithelial culture. Look for common house-hold antigens and contaminates. Go see what creepy-crawlies have set up house in our patient's pores."

House looked at Chase. "And once you're done getting us a more accurate history, run a scratch test for allergens." House again pointed at Thirteen with one corner of the chart. "And you, find out if this woman's been in therapy for depression or just good, old-fashioned insanity. Wind allergy my ass." House sniffed. "A Wilson-fart allergy on the other hand..."

Thirteen looked insulted, and shook back her long hair with a toss of her head. "If you already think Prudence is mistaken or lying about the weather connection, why do we need to check her mental history?"

House shrugged. "Because if she's a whack-job, I might want to trade amusing anecdotes with my fellow club-member." House closed the chart and tossed it back to Thirteen. "Besides with a name like Prudence, if she isn't nuts, her parents were." But at least this wasn't quite so boring anymore.

House left his team scrambling to their assigned tasks. Presently his patient was stable, so going home for the day was perfectly in order. Being the boss didn't suck.

Wilson caught up to House as he swung his leg over his motorcycle. "Hey..."

House switched off the engine, waiting for Wilson to say whatever he wanted to say. Wilson raised his eyebrows, evidently having something juicy to discuss. "Meet the new Dean yet?"

House nodded, though disappointed. Discussing the new Dean was a one-way ticket to Snoozeville. "Sure. Delightful fellow."

"Really?"

"Nope."

Wilson swayed back and forth, balanced on his toes. "He came to my office, introduced himself, said he will interview each of his department heads in the coming weeks, shook my hand and left." He sounded calm but look worried.

House picked up on his discomfort. "Well, you're as clean as a baby's freshly wiped ass, you've got nothing to worry about. Which means I've got everything to worry about."

"It'll be fine. You can't tell much about a man you just met." Wilson held his hands up, palms out, as though trying to calm a storm before it began. "But, just in case, please show the guy you can be civil. You've got four more years House, don't blow them off by blowing him off."

"How about just blowing him?" It might be amusing to see how far it could get him with the Dean's good graces.

Wilson let his head sag sideways at the gutter joke. "Charming. Just save yourself ahead of time by _not_ being yourself."

House adjusted the strap on his helmet. "I haven't been "myself" for a year, remember? I did four months of rip-roaring fun at Mayfield to prove it. I'm only the good side of House now."

"Right." House had dropped to examine his fascinating helmet strap, picking off imaginary grit with his fingers. Wilson hadn't meant to insult him. He tried to give House a smile apology. It fell flat. "Well, um, see you tomorrow."

House watched his friend walk off toward his new car. Home to domestic bliss. At least until the divorce.

House rode home to his scrubbed-of-all bad drugs apartment, swallowed Nolan's anti-depressants and non-narcotic laughably-called pain killers, ate popcorn for dinner and spent the rest of the night with a heating pad on his thigh watching reruns of Two and A Half Men.

Even at fifty years of age, House mused, no surprises there.

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Royston leaned back in his thickly padded, buttery leather chair and swiveled back and forth. His new kingdom - the prestigious Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, containing a highly skilled and reputable staff of physicians, was now his.

Several of the doctors on staff were at the top of their field, including one infamous but genius diagnostician. Royston had looked into those startling blue eyes - really, he'd had no idea how very blue they would be. The poor quality photo on the man's CV had not done them justice - and knew he'd made the right choice. Royston smiled to himself just a little, recalling House's unshaven, rumpled appearance, un-abashed display of irritation at his day being interrupted by the new Dean. Royston smiled, much amused. "Of all people - the nerve!" House's expression had seemed to say. But Gregory House's casual dismissal of him when the diagnostician's fine sliver of patience had vanished, was the cherry on top of an un-tried dessert.

And James Wilson. Friendly, open, anxious to please and be accepted. Royston could see through it all to the man's dark center. Wilson was way too nice to be so nice. The youngish oncologist was three times divorced, dark haired, a sultry ladies man, and had graduated from an Ivy League school, finishing his studies and internship two and half years sooner than most. He had become the oncology department head in a prestigious medical center by age twenty-eight. Very impressive. He was a physician dedicated to his patients and to his friend - Gregory House.

Who was not dedicated to anything or anyone, save for perhaps curing his patients. House was reputed to be absolutely brilliant. Royston had read articles written by him and _about_ him for years. Every detail of the events that had left him crippled for life he had absorbed and pondered over. Prior to visiting House in his office, Royston had taken time to observe the man from afar. House was roughly attractive, though he seemed less interested in grooming than playing his Game-Boy. He appeared to be unaware, over-all, of the sets of female eyes that longingly followed him everywhere.

Already his job was looking more and more interesting. These two men would be a challenge to keep under control. House was an irrepressible rebel and Wilson was his willing keeper. Royston's mouth was already watering.

House, despite his aversion to social graces and being - well, _liked_ at all by anyone, was also a natural born leader and lead a team of three fellows and an assistant department head. His cure rate hovered near one hundred percent. That phenomenal success was a draw for donations from those rich enough to offer thanks by way of dollar signs. Small wonder his predecessor Lisa Cuddy had broken her back trying to keep him on staff and under control though, during her tenure, having at one time or another lost both battles.

Royston found it an intriguing point of character that House had not sued the hospital over the misdiagnosis of his leg and subsequent permanent disability. Cuddy's hospital had crippled him for life, leaving him in constant pain, and House had not pursued any by-right compensation, through legal representation or otherwise. That suggested a man accustomed to self reliance. Perhaps defiantly so.

Royston guessed that at times that fierce independence had brought grief rather than satisfaction. Royston suspected those very facts heavily underlined why Lisa Cuddy had created the Diagnostics department (entirely her idea), in the first place. She was anxious to fix the grievous error her staff had made regarding House's diagnosis and mismanaged medical treatment, and had fought tooth and nail for funds to make up for it.

House had accepted the offer of employment and been at Plainsboro, with short interruptions, ever since. One such interruption had been a four month stay in a mental institution for a nervous break-down. Royston looked forward to learning the more intimate details of that and the events leading up to it. Yes, both these doctors were an interesting study. He had his fun cut out for him.

There was one contradictory thing about House - he seemed to draw lasting friendships despite being, for the most part, a thoroughly unpleasant man. His lurching, painful looking stride, a pathetically endearing sight, was perhaps part of the reason he was so often granted social and professional leniencies despite that glaring flaw. It was going to be interesting to see how well House stood up, mentally and physically, under specific circumstances. Both of these men had not only roused his curiosity but he suspected both would prove a stimulating challenge.

Royston linked his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes. Finally, after five years, he was standing at the threshold of his singular goal. He had tired of his old toys, and craved these new diversions. Indulging in visions of the days to come, Royston felt a rush of warmth flow from his extremities to his center. His cock twitched.

The fingers of his right hand abandoned his left and drifted lower to rub against his erection beneath the layers of cloth. Behind the clinic counter, the nurses and doctors hustled here and there. No one was paying any attention to the new Dean sitting in his chair, and he was free to fondle himself for a moment. He closed his eyes, a rapture sweeping across his features as he envisioned a mouth down there, moaning, sucking happily, willingly giving over more and more of himself, looking up at him in total hatred but perfect obedience. Royston stopped himself before he reached the point of no return. It would not do to carry a wet stain at his crotch for the remainder of the day.

He picked up his phone and asked his assistant to send up a cup of fancy coffee, and to bring him the CV of every current department head, starting with James Wilson. When his assistant had efficiently fulfilled those requests, he sipped a thick cappuccino and with a contented sigh, leaned back in his chair with the CV of his oncologist department head on his lap. "Now then, Doctor Wilson..."

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Wilson entered without knocking. Not really necessary between him and House. Besides House always saw him coming, or sensed his presence, and within that thin niche of their relationship, the man was psychic. Wilson sat down in House's visitors chair, linking his hands. "Had my interview with Royston."

House raised his eyebrows. "Looks like you've made yourself a brand new friend."

"He's all right. It looks like he just wants to run the hospital and do it well. I respect that."

"What did you talk about?"

"My tenure. Am I happy here - he's divorced, too."

"Ah." House said. "One of the good ol' boys. Did you trade infidelity secrets?"

Wilson sighed a little, refusing to let House spoil his good mood or bate him once again into the old, worn out discussion of his wandering penis. "You know, it wouldn't hurt you to at least give the man the benefit of the doubt."

"Giving someone the benefit of the doubt just means you're testing their trustworthiness, then waiting to see whether or not you're going to be screwed over. Royston could be a gangster or a fraud, or a psychopath - or a _woman_." House insisted. "He's certainly feminine enough."

Wilson stood up. "You're a jerk."

"A hundred bucks says I'm right."

"Done." Wilson walked away, saying over his shoulder - "I'm holding you to that bet, House." He opened the door, adding as he turned sideways to accommodate it, "And you can't borrow the money from _me_ to pay me back when you lose."

Through the glass conference room walls, House watched his friend walk in the direction of his own office, until he disappeared around the corner. What would he buy with the hundred?

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**FRIDAY 12:00**

"Royston found funds for my trial."

House glanced up from his cafeteria-made corned beef sandwich. Mustard coated his index finger and a pickle spear was sticking out between his teeth as his incisors slowly ground it to mulch like a tree-shredder. He swallowed. "Trial? Which wife's husband did you humiliate this week?"

"I have not cheated on Leanne. My drug trial? Remember?" Wilson sat down opposite his friend and pulled out his own egg-salad on rye and orange juice, the kind served in little plastic containers with the peel-off, tin-foil seal. "We talked about it yesterday? I put the request in with Cuddy and I guess she passed it onto Royston. He just called me about it."

"Since when have you done research?" House knew of course, that Wilson dabbled in research here and there, in conjunction with two of his colleagues, his contribution being statistics on his patient's cancer types, treatments, successful and not, death percentages, remissions and lengths of. All that boring numbers crap that he wouldn't touch without an elective lobotomy.

"The point is," Wilson bit into his sandwich. "That this is big for me, House. It's a major star on my career board. Royston has approved my contribution to the trial, the over-time, my assistants' over-time, everything. My career is finally turning a corner."

"Little Jimmy's made himself a sugar-daddy. The money'll certainly be better."

"I'm not doing it for the money. For once, I have an opportunity to be a part of something special." Wilson tilted his head. "And I wouldn't even say friend by the way, though it doesn't hurt to be friend-_ly_ - especially if you need something."

"Bet he asks you for a date."

Wilson rolled his eyes and abandoned the rest of his egg salad. It was more sour than sweet. Too much pickle, and not enough mayonnaise. "You're a miserable jerk. I thought you'd given that up?"

"When called for." House finished his own lunch. "Royston's interested, Wilson. I saw him reading your CV in the cafeteria."

"He's reading everyone's CV." Wilson drained the orange juice and tossed the container, and the plastic sandwich wrap with the remainder of his sandwich inside, into House's trash basket.

House picked up his last pickle spear. "He's reading yours for the _second_ time. " He made a show of sucking on the thick pickle like it was a delicious popsicle, never letting his eyes fall from Wilson's.

Wilson got the silent joke. "Why can't we ever eat together without you making some crude verbal or physical reference to a dildo."

"Who says I'm referencing a _dildo_? Maybe I'm just practicing."

"Gross. So he's reading my CV again. So what?"

"Royston's buttering you up for the big squeeze." House's pager went off.

Wilson stood. House was being summoned by his team. "House..." Wilson waved a weary hand at House's ridiculous claims. "Just...go suck your pickle."

House finished the sour treat. "Bowling Wednesday? Or has Leanne vetoed all of this week's fun again?"

"Yes. Meet you there. Usual time."

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**FRIDAY 12:32**

"Talk to me." House saw the patient himself. Thirteen and Taub were dealing with an outbreak on the patient's chest and abdomen. Angry bright red wheals had popped up all over from between her sagging breasts to her flabby stomach. Thirteen was spreading a topical cream over the portions of the patient's skin afflicted with the erythema. Taub glanced at him. "Some of these are fluid filled. This isn't an allergy, it's a pruritic eruption."

House walked over to the suffering woman. He didn't sit down. He wasn't there to comfort, he was there to investigate. "Does it itch?"

She was pale and sweating. "No, it burns."

House nodded. "Are you sexually active?"

Prudence looked uncomfortable. "Once in a while."

"When was the last _once_?"

"Why do you need to-?"

"-Because I'm a _doctor," _House swung his cane around at the walls, "and you're in a _hospital_, so I'm guessing you probably came here for treatment. I don't care if you're riding the New Jersey Devils, when was the last time you had sex?"

"Six months ago." She said, her face red, though not from rash. Raising her voice in defense - "I've had a _dry_ spell."

House looked at Taub. "Check for HIV." He glanced at the patient one last time. "Did you always use protection?"

Prudence bit her lip. "No, not _every_ time."

House said "Well, the next _once_, don't be such an idiot and use protection. On every corner there's a drugstore. In every drugstore there are condoms. Aisle Four, right next to the KY."

House's pager went off. He read the message and left. After her inconsiderate doctor had walked out, Prudence turned to stare at the nicer doctor. "Doctor..._Thirteen_ is it?" She asked with frightened eyes. "Do I have _AIDS_?"

Thirteen shook her head. "Doctor Hadley and _no_, we haven't confirmed that. Doctor House just wants to be sure. He's concerned." To her right, Taub snorted. Thirteen ignored him and smiled warmly at their patient. "I'll be taking some blood now..."

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**WEDNESDAY (Jan 8) 19:26 "Pins N' Things" Bowling Alley:**

Wilson had his shoes tied, his pencil and score forms ready. He'd drank two medium diet Pepsi's and eaten a small bag of corn-puffs. When his stomach was full, he looked at his watch for the tenth time in fifteen minutes. Seven-twenty-six. Twenty-six minutes after their usual start time. He'd already paid the fee's for three games and was reluctant to give up just yet.

Another five minutes and still no sign of House. Wilson tried House's cell again, and got the same typically worded recording. _"Only leave your name and number if you either owe me money, or aren't wearing a stitch of clothing. Be-e-e-ep!" _

Wilson angrily closed his phone. "Selfish jackass." Probably some puerile punishment because he'd canceled last week's bowling night to take Leanne to a one-night-only stage show. Wilson bent over and untied the bowling shoes, returning them to the cashier behind the counter, who sprayed the insides with Lysol and returned them to their little slot among a hundred others. Wilson slipped into his sneakers and gathered his coat, muttering. "He can be such a child sometimes." Wilson left the bowling alley, abandoning his thirty dollar payment and drove home. Tomorrow he would ignore House all day and see how he liked it!

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**THURSDAY (Jan 9) 09:47**

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House was not yet in, and Wilson, caught up on paperwork and patients, paced his friend's vacant office for a moment, wondering if he should crash House's apartment and boot out the hooker House had most likely rented for the night. Probably that would not go over very well.

The thought had crossed his mind that maybe House was ill, or maybe his car had broken down, but then why had he not called for assistance? Getting madder every second, Wilson finally shoved open the door between the office and the conference room where Foreman sat perusing test results. When Foreman looked up - "Did House call in?" Wilson asked.

Not cracking an expression, Foreman shook his head. "He isn't answering his cell either." He sounded unconcerned.

Wilson pursed his lips. House was late and ignoring his cellular. It smelled like old times.

Whenever House's behavior took a sharp downward angle, Wilson's worst fear was always that House was using again. But he'd been clean for a year and a half, and back living on his own for five months of that. House had resumed his own life without the need for a twenty-four hour babysitter. Wilson mentally searched for any particular stressors, other than Cuddy leaving, that might have triggered a relapse.

He shook his head, feeling silly. No point in getting ahead of himself. "Where's the rest of the team?" He asked Foreman while having no real _reason_ to ask. Only it wasn't like House to abandoned a patient, unless he was ill, or annoyed with Cuddy, or furious at his best friend. Did any of those apply? House's usual calm had certainly been ruffled by Cuddy's leaving but if House had been truly mad enough to try and manipulate her, he certainly would have done so while she was still present so the proper pressure could be applied.

Wilson dismissed one motive after another as to House's mysterious absence, finally arriving at zero.

Foreman was answering his last question. "Taub's doing his clinic hours."

"Perfect. Looks like House is doing everything he can to endear himself to the new Dean." Not!

Foreman shrugged. It said to Wilson this sort of behavior from his boss was old hat and he shouldn't be such a nervous Nelly. "Royston didn't seem to care one way or another."

Wilson was surprised by that and it showed by his eyebrows inverting from their usual slightly upward slanted Spock-like bushes, to a fuzzy tent-like shape. "Really?"

All of their musings were rendered moot when House entered his office, walking a little slower than usual. A lot slower actually. Wilson entered from the other door. Stupidly he had not once considered that maybe it was House's leg that was making him late. "Bad leg day?"

House nodded, keeping his eyes on his chair, as though if he looked elsewhere, he might lose his way. He eased his frame down onto the soft cushioned Pleather with a grimace, dropping his back pack with a hard thump to the floor.

"Wow." Wilson commented once he got a full view of House's face. "You look terrible, House."

"And good morning to you." There was humor intended but it never reached his face.

"You should talk to Nolan - have him adjust your med's."

House nodded. "Yeah. I'll do that."

Wilson felt like he ought not to say more, but he was just curious enough to be a little nosy. "Why didn't you answer your cell phone?"

"I forgot it at home." House explained. "Had to turn around and go back for it."

Wilson nodded. That would explain why House had answered neither his cell or his home phone. But his explanation had come across as pat and perfect. Logical. Un-arguable. Convenient, almost. Wilson was reminded of the sort of excuses one heard when a favorite aunt forgets to send her favorite nephew a birthday gift. "It's fragile. I didn't want it to break.", "I'm coming out in a few months, so I thought I'd just bring it with me.", or the weakest stand-by when all other excuses were used up. "The postal office must have lost it." Such excuses came out of the same bin that was marked - "The Check's In The Mail.".

House wasn't telling him everything. Maybe he really did just have a bad night of break-through pain. Or maybe he was telling the truth, and it was pointless to speak of it further. But this was his best friend. His best friend who, not too long ago, had suffered a serious mental break. "Are you _sure_ you're all right? You missed bowling."

House raised his eyebrows, like he had forgotten all about it. "Oh, yeah. Sorry. Had an emergency meeting with Nolan. Forgot to call you."

Well, that was good. A meeting with Nolan was a healthy move if he was having leg troubles. Or other undisclosed troubles, like his dead girlfriend's ghost playing his lute, or Kutner watching football with him while bleeding on the carpet.

House had done the right thing then. The bowling was forgotten.

Wilson still felt wrong about it somehow. House had spoken openly and honestly, and yet it had sounded a little forced. Falsely at ease.

But this time House's countenance had been perfect. Convincing. "You'd tell me, wouldn't you, if you _weren't_ okay?"

House nodded. This third time, he seemed perfectly calm and natural. "Yeah. Why are you fussing like a Baba? Don't you have bald-headed patients to poison?"

Wilson sighed. "Fine. Don't talk to me." He had to get back to his own practice anyway. "See you at lunch."

"Uh," To Wilson's amazement, House actually stumbled over the next words. "Can't. Sorry - my...the patient. Can't really,...can't spare the time." The face was definitely House's but the delivery was frightened underling. Chase on his first day. "Sorry."

Wilson, recovered from the shock of hearing House babble like a scared first-year intern, would have to chase this down later. "Okay. If you're sure."

House nodded once. "I'll see you later."

Again, that dead-pan, rehearsed tone. Wilson slipped away. What would have been a usual, almost routine, little spat and make-up talk between them had settled on Wilson's shoulders like lumps of clay. Now he was almost certain that House was indeed hiding something. Had he gone on a bender? On his present regime of pills, alcohol was strictly forbidden. Had House broken the rules and gone bar-hopping? It would explain his recent shortness of temper, the hesitant manner, the awkward speech, the lateness, the fact that he'd come to work looking like a pile of unwashed clothes, and pale enough that there was no way he'd found his way to bed in the past twenty-four hours.

If House was drinking again, it could un-do all the progress he had made. He could end up right back where he'd been; no license, no practice, and no where to go but down. Or back to Mayfield if it got that far. Wilson sat down at his desk and dialed Nolan. Cuddy was gone. He had to talk to someone about this and he didn't trust House's team enough to keep it to themselves. Foreman would only be too happy to step back into House's slot the second House was behind a locked door, and again wearing the standard issue pajamas of the mentally ill.

Nolan answered after four rings. "We have to talk about House." Wilson spoke right away, not bothering with formalities. Nolan knew his voice by now and that he would not be calling unless he felt it was urgent. Nolan would also understand the reason for his call coming in the middle of his morning sessions. It was because they shared a common interest - they'd both been there, watching House make all those great strides toward wellness, and now they wanted to do whatever they could to _keep_ him well.

"What's going on with him, James?" Came Nolan's deep, resonating baritone. It was a calming voice. Wilson was glad House had got Doctor Nolan as a therapist. He was not only very good at his job, he was as smart and as crafty as House was, which was an absolute must if your intent was to beat House at his own game, and make him well against his own sometimes foolish will.

Drinking was the more likely returning demon. For one thing, booze was easy to get. No prescriptions and no walking the streets at night trolling for a hit. Also it was the less physically dangerous of the two addictions that plagued House. Wilson refused to admit that he suspected alcohol more than Vicodin simply because House had not abused the former nearly as recklessly as he had the latter.

But if House had returned to alcohol to numb his pain, physical, mental or both, that was still relatively simple to fix. And there were plenty of professional "functional drunks". House could cope for a long time before the alcohol would begin to interfere with his work or his mental state. House had a Doctorate in concealment and faking wellness.

But pills? Dozens of pills, or _hundreds_, plus insomnia, hallucinations, delusions...that was a world and then some away from a chronic hang-over. _Shit-fuck-shit!_ "I'm worried about him. I'm afraid House, um,..." Wilson took a deep breath. He wasn't only properly worried, he also felt terribly let down; at House for slipping this badly, and at himself for neglecting him. "I think he might be using again."

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Part II asap


	2. Chapter 2

**EVEN TRADE**

**Part II**

By GeeLady

Pairing: H/OMC, W/OFC & H/W

Ratings: NC-17 Adult, SLASH, ANGSTY. (What _else_ have you ever got from me??)

Warnings: Non-con, blackmail, mentions of addictions, drugs, self-harm.

Summary: House becomes the object of someone's dangerous obsession, but it's _Wilson's_ freedom that hangs in the balance.

**This Story**: I started writing before I saw episode 6x10, and it acknowledges everything up to and including "Wilson", with the exception of Wilson and House going in together on the loft Cuddy didn't get. In my fic', they are not living together and it continues to deviate from there.

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**THURSDAY (Jan 9) 10:47**

House skipped a cafeteria coffee break. Too far to walk, and he wasn't feeling quite right down there yet. He settled on a box of M&M's from the candy machine (only fifty or so steps away), and returned to his desk, thinking back to his first meeting with his new boss the previous Friday. What an unexpected conversation it had turned out to be:

_"Thank you for coming, Doctor House. Please sit down."_

_The new boss/employee relationship was beginning innocuously enough. Royston motioned House to a new well padded, very comfortable chair across from his rich dark wood desk and its modern, ergonomically proportioned seat. It was a weird contraption that hugged Royston's skinny hips and forced his back to straighten like a saluting sailor whenever he sat down. The arms rests were adjustable so they could be set at the perfect height for the least stress on the shoulder and elbow joints. To House the thing looked remarkably uncomfortable._

_House settled in the visitor's office-normal chair, waiting._

_Royston closed a thick file House correctly guessed was about him, folded his hands and smiled pleasantly across the desk at him._

_"You have a colorful work history at Plainsboro." Royston began and House suspected it would all go down hill from there. He was wrong. "I like colorful, though, Doctor House - that was not a criticism. The world is choked with the boring and the uninspired. You don't fall into either category." From his suit jacket pocket, to House's surprise, Royston pulled out and lit a tiny cigar, happily sucking in its cherry flavored smoke. _

_The Dean removed the thing from between his lips and smiled with one corner of his mouth, smoke drifting out both nostrils. "I know, it's illegal and its bad for me." He took a second, leisurely puff. "Like I said, the world is a bore."_

_Royston regarded House casually, and House was beginning to think Royston wasn't quite right in the head. "Speaking of boredom..." House dropped the blatant hint._

_Royston's smile widened. "You do not disappoint."_

_House shifted his bad leg, and propped his cane on the floor, ready to rise and walk out. This was fucked up. "Can you please get to the meat of...whatever this is?"_

_Royston nodded. "Yes. Why don't I get to the meat of it. How ironically apropos." He leaned back, as much as he was able to in the screwy chair, cool as a cucumber, his eyes never leaving House's face. "Life is short, Greg',.."_

_House frowned at the familiar address. Who said you could call me by my first name? Roy! _

_"And, in most ways for most people, unfulfilling. I figure I have twenty good years left, and then I'll start growing old, just as you are now..."_

_House set his feet under him. One more back-handed insult, and he would tell Royston directly where he could shove his mocking charms. Wilson's voice reverberated in his head. "House, try to be civil at least. You have four more years, don't blow it." House made himself sit still._

_"I have always been aware that I have certain appetites as to career, sex, food, entertainment..." Royston paused and raked his eyes over House's body, "...sex."_

_House felt like the man's eyes had somehow left his skull, rolled across the desk, squirmed under his clothes and left a trail of ooze across his skin. Oh, yeah. Very fucked up. _

_Ignoring House's steadily shifting feet and incredulous glare. "And now that I have made something of myself and find myself in a position of power, I feel it is time to use those years left truly enjoying myself. I want to explore my inner god."_

_House couldn't tell, not yet, whether this was an obscene joke (in very bad taste), or if Royston really was nuts. "I recommend Satan's Bible as a guide. Sounds like it's right up your alley." House remarked and stood up._

_Royston didn't flinch. "-Doctor House. Please sit down." Royston gestured to the chair with a hand that was ever so charming. "Please."_

_House resumed his seat. "For the record, this is the most uncomfortable meeting I have ever attended. What do you want from me?" I have other, less creepy people to ignore._

_"You're going to help me fulfill those fantasies." Royston loved the effect his words had on the rumpled, very attractive diagnostician. Yes, that was the face he liked to see. The disbelief. That "This must be a joke" face. Doctor House was thinking his boss must be coo-coo. Perhaps even crazier than he is. _

_"I think you have me confused with someone who might be turned on by this." House said. He felt a weird little flutter in his chest. His heart believed Royston was serious and was trying to remove itself from his presence._

_"No, there is no confusion. I'm dead serious." Royston stood and walked around to where House was sitting, looking down at him, his cigar burning down between two fingers, neglected. An ash clung bravely to its lighted end. "I've decided that you are going to have sex with me whenever I ask. Our first date will be five days from now." Royston took one last, long drag on the cigar. "Are you ready for the other details?"_

_House felt now was a good time to end their conversation, and stood up. For the first time, he realized that all of the blinds were down, and that was almost as creepy as this sick joke. House took a step away from the man, searching his unperturbed features to detect if Royston was speaking the truth or just screwing with him, to get a rise of one sort or another. But Royston seemed completely in command of himself. He was simply waiting, almost idly, for an answer. _

_"By your expression I can tell that this isn't a joke to you," House said, "but that you think I'll actually agree to it is. Congratulations on your gay-god-dom. Have a nice flight of fantasy." House turned to leave. "Bye-bye."_

_Behind him Royston's next words made House pause. "Doctor Wilson will be very disappointed."_

_House turned to look at him. No joking now. There was nothing amusing about this. "What the hell does Wilson have to do with your perverted man-bits?"_

_Royston looked at his burned down cigar and House was shocked to see him butt the ashes on the carpet. Cuddy had them professionally cleaned prior to leaving, but Royston didn't appear to mind dirtying up things around him, despite his squeaky clean shave and carefully combed hair. "Well, the drug trial - he's heavily involved in it now. His whole career is invested in him seeing it through, not to mention the boost it will bring to his professional reputation. He's committed to the end now. If he pulls out, or if the funding to continue his contributions dries up..."_

_House read him loud and clear. "Wilson would never choose a trial over me." Royston had no idea about friendship or loyalty. That was as plain as the subtle sheen of evil on his face._

_He chuckled. "Of course not." Royston didn't believe his own words however._

_House shook his head, his eyes narrowed at the bizarre situation he found himself in. One minute he was meeting the new boss, the next he was wishing that new boss was dead. "You know, I could sue you for sexual harassment, and I need the money 'cause I'm pretty much broke."_

_"Yes, I am aware." Royston said. He swung his cigar butt around, gesturing as he relayed his knowledge. "The Tritter thing, the trial and the lawyer fees to the tune of forty-five thousand dollars, not including the fifteen thousand dollars bail. That put a sizable hole in your personal savings. The expanded team for the last two years have taken another seventy-eight thousand out of your professional budget, so you yourself took a pay cut to accommodate them." Royston regarded the buffed nails on his cigar hand. "Then there was Mayfield..." Royston sighed, resuming his seat. "That unfortunately ate up what was left. Your health insurance at the time didn't cover craziness, did it?" Then he asked rhetorically "But then, who in their right mind thinks they're going to go insane?" Royston laughed at his own minuscule joke._

_"Apparently not even the insane." _

_"Very good, Doctor House." Royston said. "Touche'." _

_House looked away. "I'll talk to Wilson. We'll figure something out. He won't need your money." _

_"The hospital's money, actually." Royston corrected amiably._

_Threatening this prick was obviously not going to work. "Whatever." He'd sell the piano, the corvette, the collectors guitars, the collectors albums, every thing he owned in the world so long as he didn't have to sleep with this mind-fucking son-of-a-bitch._

_"I feel compelled to remind you that I could have you fired." _

_"I have tenure."_

_"A touchy tenure, yes. There's still a risk you could lose it. Persuasion is an art, after all, and I'm pretty good."_

_House shrugged. "This isn't the first time I've risked my job for defying a power-hungry prick." He moved toward the exit once more._

_"Are you willing to risk Wilson's career as well?"_

_House reached the office door. The blinds were drawn here, too, making it impossible to see beyond the expensive Hunter fabric. "Doesn't matter. Wilson would never choose a drug trial over me." House looked back around at him. "He didn't choose his career. Twice." Score one for loyalty._

_"But are you willing to choose Wilson over yourself? Or over himself?"_

_"What the hell does that mean?"_

_Royston resumed his seat, opening a folder on his desk. "Enough of this for now, Doctor House. You may go and think about what I've said. We'll speak again in a few days."_

_House had gimped rapidly, almost a skip-hopping lurch, to Wilson's office. He knocked and opened. Wilson was alone and House breathed a sigh of relief. They needed to talk now and had there been a patient, he would have sent them out the door with a thumb jerk._

_Wilson looked up curiously, his physician's eye noticing House's red face. "You're flushed. Did you run here?"_

_House shook his head and sat down. "I need a favor. A big favor and you can't ask any questions why."_

_Wilson raised his eyebrows, rubbing his chin in speculative thought. "Well, when you put it that way - no." A joke._

_"I'm serious." House said quietly._

_This time Wilson had heard the words as cold, hard matter-of-fact syllables. House was not laughing. He was serious. "What's wrong?"_

_"Actually, I need one of two favors, but you only have to say yes to one of them - with no questions why." House hoped he didn't look as scared as he felt. He hadn't felt this off-balance since Tritter's looming bulk and his band of minions had trashed his apartment. He'd felt his life had been violated that day, his person raped, his soul broken into and tossed around. _

_Wilson nodded. "This is against my better judgement."_

_"Duly noted." House took a breath and addressed the carpet between his feet. The rubber tip of his cane made little round circles in its soft surface. "Is there any way you would be willing to quit the drug trial?"_

_Wilson shook his head as though his friend had taken leave of his senses. "Wha-? Why would I want to do that, or more importantly, why would you want me to do that?"_

_"I said no questions! So that's your answer? You won't?"_

_Wilson sat back in his chair, unable to make heads or tails of his eccentric friend. "No, and I'll tell you why. It would ruin my reputation with my colleagues. I'd never be accepted into another chemo-trial - not to mention the possible destruction of my career. Pick one."_

_House nodded. He had figured on such an answer. A reasonable response considering he had presented Wilson with no reasons why he would need such an enormous favor. "So there's no way in hell you'll quit the trial just because I'm asking you to?"_

_"Give a reason - a damn good one, and-"_

_"-Can't do that."_

_"Then no. Sorry, House."_

_House shook his head. "'S fine. Second favor. I need you to talk to Lucas for me. I need him for a snoop job."_

_Wilson was very confused now. "What's going on? Why don't you let me help by actually letting me in on what's happening."_

_"No. Will you call Lucas for me?"_

_"You don't want Lucas to know it's you who wants the investigation, whatever it is?"_

_"I don't want Cuddy to know it's me."_

_Wilson reasoned it over. Right. That would be awkward. Hiring the new husband of the woman you had loved for years but who had tossed you aside for said husband; your friend. Embarrassing, too, because Wilson knew House was now all but broke. Mayfield had taken the last of his savings. He was starting out from scratch, trying to pick himself up again, at fifty years of age. "He'll want to know what sort of snoop job."_

_House looked directly at Wilson. "I want him to look into Royston's background. See if he has any skeletons in his closet, or at least a bone."_

_Wilson started to worry big time. "Oh my god. Is this sort of crap starting up all over again?"_

_"This isn't idle curiosity. I'm not trying to stir the shit storm. This is important - to me."_

_Wilson wanted to believe him. "I can't see this ending in your favor, and probably not mine either."_

_"Will you do this for me or not?"_

_"Of course." Wilson rubbed a hand down his face. "Against my better judgement." Wilson ventured - "Then can I ask why you would ask me to quit the-?"_

_"-I needed you to help me with Lucas, and by giving you two choices, you choose the one I knew you'd be willing to help me with."_

_"Maybe I would have helped you anyway."_

_"I needed a guarantee."_

_"Well, I can understand not wanting to just call Lucas up - the man who stole Cuddy from you..."_

_House had a flash of the old jealousy, betrayal and hurt he had felt when seeing Lucas in Cuddy's room that day, playing house-daddy with the baby. "He did not "steal" her. She made a choice and it wasn't me." That had been the jealousy and hurt. And because she had begun to see Lucas, and had done so secretly, thereby leaving him to assume she was still free to be pursued - that had been the betrayal._

_The pain of it was still evident on House's face. And something else was there. A new pain. A worry. Over the weekend something in House's life had changed. Wilson feared it might be either drugs or alcohol. "Are you okay?" Obviously not if he's investigating Royston. Or if he was, he wasn't going to stay okay. _

_"Will you call Lucas tonight?"_

_"I said I would, and I will." _

_House nodded and left his office without another word._

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_Lucas called House on his cell the next morning. In the background House could hear Rachael gurgling. House imagined Lucas holding her in one arm and cradling the phone between his cheek and shoulder while stirring baby formula. In the background of their stylish kitchen the television blared. Probably Barney crooning a preachy song about friendship and love. _

_"You want ammo' against Royston?" Lucas asked. "Figured you'd be going to another PI after, you know, me and Cuddy and all that."_

_House silently told Lucas to shut up while counting to four. Once his temper had subsided - "Yes. I want the dirt on Royston." Deciding to not respond to the rest._

_"He's got you by the balls?"_

_"Something like that. Your usual fee or did you jacked it up over the holidays?"_

_"This time, it's free."_

_House was not impressed with being thought of as a charity case. "I can pay."_

_"and I owe you one."_

_That just made him angrier. "For what? Cuddy? You didn't win, Lucas. She choose, and I don't want to be owing you anything." _

_"Fine. Be stubborn. God, no wonder you only have one friend."_

_House felt like his chest was imploding. He could feel the tell-tale shaking in the ends of his fingers that was the first indicator of a panic attack. He didn't have the stamina anymore for this kind of crap. He was old, and tired of struggling for every inch of happiness. What used to be amusing now left him fatigued. "Just tell me when you've got something."_

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_Two days was not enough time for Lucas to produce the goods before Royston had called up House and arranged a second meeting. This time in a fancy restaurant. "Semi-formal." Royston had instructed. Therefor House had arrived in a black tee-shirt, a hot pink, madly wrinkled over-shirt he was sure hadn't been washed in a while, and faded jeans with one knee torn out. _

_Royston passed a fifty to the maitre-de' and House was seated anyway. _

_After a casual look over House's ensemble - "Rather conventional, wouldn't you say?" Royston remarked as House sat down opposite him in the leather and velvet chair. The lighting was subdued, the food French, and the wine expensive. Royston himself looked like he'd just come from his personal hair-dresser. "Your pedestrian method of rebellion I mean."_

_House ignored it. "What do you want?"_

_"Surely you recall our previous conversation?"_

_House had nothing on the bastard yet. For the present he was out of options. "I'm telling Wilson. He can get a job elsewhere. I'll help him."_

_"No one takes you seriously these days, House. You've been institutionalized. That changes people's outlooks. Even back when you were a reputed genius, people at least knew you weren't insane."_

_"I'm not insane now, asshole."_

_"They don't know that. I guarantee that's what they think though. We both know you're in no position to help Doctor Wilson, except for the particular way which I have outlined for you."_

_"Then fire me. Fire Wilson too." House stood up. "Wow, look at the time. Thanks for the invite, psycho, but I'm not doing it."_

_A waiter appeared out of nowhere, discreetly setting a plate of food in front of Royston who sniffed it appreciatively, then hurrying away to let his patrons continue their conversation in privacy._

_"I know something that may change your mind." Royston shook out and tucked the red serviette under his chin like a bib. "In fact, I'm ninety-nine percent certain it will change your mind."_

_House doubted it. "Oh?"_

_"Remember Naomi Hesch. A dear woman."_

_A name House hadn't heard for many years. But, yes, he remembered her. House resumed his seat. "Never heard of her." His voice hitched._

_Royston pulled out his cellular phone and punched in a speed-dial. "How about we ask Wilson if he remembers her?"_

_House waited, his nerves sitting on nails. "You're bluffing." House said._

_Royston covered the mouth-piece with his hand. "You're an astute observer of human nature. Look into my eyes and tell me - do you see bluff in my eyes?" He spoke into the phone. "Doctor Wilson?" _

_All House could see was a poisonous bottom dweller the color of sea slime, ready to strike. Before Wilson could respond from his end, House reached over and closed Royston's phone, cutting off the call. House could imagine Wilson at the other end staring down into his phone, and debating whether he should call his boss back or not. A few seconds later, it trilled in Royston's hand. For certain it was Wilson. "Shall I answer, Doctor House?" Royston asked. _

_House's eyes fired bullets at Royston, each one falling to the ground. "No."_

_Royston smiled kindly at House. A small twist lifted one corner of his mouth like he was a cat who had finally cornered an especially clever mouse. "So, I see you do remember her."_

_House looked away. "Yes." He said it to the bouquet of flowers at the next table. "How did you know about her?"_

_"Interesting bit of luck, that. Her husband, very old now. I tracked him down, and he remembers everything too. A bit senile, but every detail of that day seems to have stuck with him."_

_House took a deep breath to still his nausea. "So the deal is if you can sleep with me, you're not going to ruin Wilson?You won't hurt him at all?"_

_"Hurt the man you're in love with? You cooperate and do your best to...please me, and I won't touch a hair on his pretty head." Royston saw that his words had struck home. "Yes, I know you love him. I also know he got married to that Leanne girl and broke your heart." Royston gestured to House. "I must say, you hide it well." Royston chewed. "This steak is excellent." He waved the waiter over. "Two glasses with ice and lemon, and a bottle of good Vodka, please."_

_When the bottle arrived, Royston poured out a generous amount into each glass, thoroughly stirred each drink with a glass stir-stick the waiter had provided, and handed one to House. Royston held his up. "I'm sorry to have brought out the big guns, House, but you were more resistant than I'd anticipated. Always be prepared, however." He clinked House's glass, who had made no move to do so. "This is the start of something marvelous." Royston said and drained the Vodka. _

_Then his voice turned all business. "We will never speak of this over the phone, only in person. Wednesday night at the Radisson Hotel. Ask for Martin Garrett at the desk. Come freshly showered, wearing your faded jeans and your dark blue over-shirt. No tee-shirt, and no underwear. But bring a complete change of clothes with you. I'll - ahem - provided everything else."_

_House felt like he was going to be sick all over the fancy made up table. "What? Aren't you going to wine and dine me first?" A last ditch effort to shrug off Royston's triumph as though it were no triumph at all. _

_"No. I eat alone. Goodnight, Greg, and don't be late."_

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-

Wilson had left his office still suspicious, and House kicked himself for forgetting about Wednesday night bowling. Of course, Royston had would have to have chosen that night for their first rendezvous. Popping a few more candies in his mouth, he chewed them quickly, the sweetness helping minimize his memory of other, less tasteful things he had recently had in his mouth. But he didn't think anything would be strong enough to rid his taste buds of _that_.

Details came back to him unbidden of his first "date" with the new Dean, and he had to force a swallow of candy passed a gag. House doubted he would ever forget the smell, either, of the room or of _him_. House shifted in his seat. His backside was sore and he had already dabbed disinfectant and a bandage on the bite Royston had left on his left shoulder-blade. The whole experience had been something he was doing all he could do to forget. Not easy but House had a sneaky suspicion he was swiftly going to become adept at blocking their "dates", as Royston called them, out of his mind.

He had in fact worn his Ipod the whole time to drown out Royston's grunts and groans, and the slapping of the man's red-headed balls against his perineum. Royston had grudgingly allowed the music device, though House doubted the bastard would tolerate it a second time.

Date number one had begun with smiles and wine. At least from Royston's end:

_"Greg. I'm so glad you're here." Royston said and swung the heavy door wide. He closed it, turned the bolt and watched House come to a stop in the middle of the room, not sitting down, not removing his winter coat. Not going anywhere near the king sized bed._

_Royston ignored House's discomfort and poured himself a glass of white wine. He looked around his shoulder at House, who hadn't moved from the middle of the carpet. "Drink?"_

_"No. Can we get on with this."_

_"In good time. This isn't a back-alley bump, this is an entire evening, and I intend to savor every moment." He turned to look House up and down. Royston himself was wearing black dress pants and a blue silk shirt, tucked in as neat as a pin. He even wore his dress shoes. By comparison House knew he looked like a frump. But then, that's what Royston claimed to be in to. _

_Royston let his eyes roam over his employee's still, slanted form, his right fist gripping his cane for dear life. "Remove your coat, Greg, and be comfortable."_

_Since his leg was killing him, House figured there was no point in keeping it on or to keep standing there as though it would do him any good. He sat heavily on the room's only upright chair, the piece of furniture farthest from the bed. "Wilson's never done anything to you. Stronger case in point - neither have I."_

_"This has nothing to do with punishment or reward. This is what I want. Nothing more, nothing less. I always get what I want." Royston sipped his wine and, while he spoke, never took his eyes off of his date for the evening. "You wore those soft jeans for me. They look lovely on you."_

_"I wore fuck for you."_

_Royston sipped from his glass. "And yet here you are, dressed in them. You will leave those jeans behind tonight, as a keepsake. I think I might like to be buried with them."_

_"I can make that happen today if you want."_

_Royston, ignoring House's initial decline of alcohol, poured out a second glass of white wine. "You don't need to remove them yet, but I want you to unzip them for me." When he heard no movement from behind him, Royston added - "Now please."_

_He turned around to watch as House stood to remove his belt. He un-zipped his jeans and sat back down. A line of light brown hair lead Royston's eye to a tantalizing feathering of slightly thicker hair where the zipper bottom stopped. Royston licked his lips. "Mmm, that's much better. Now undo your shirt buttons, from the top down, leaving only two."_

_Royston watched House's face this time as his underling looked at the wall while doing as he was told. Soon, Royston mused, Greg would do so while looking at him and, after that, the mule headed diagnostician would look at him with lust and surrender, wanting this almost as much as he did._

_Once House had finished, Royston handed him a glass of chilled golden liquid. "Why me?" House asked not for the first time. But he accepted the glass._

_"Why not you?"_

_"I don't have a young body anymore. There are plenty of young, good looking male nurses who would jump all over this if given the chance."_

_"We've discussed this before, Greg. I choose you because you're interesting. They're not." He touched his whiskered cheek with a finger. "Besides I like your looks and your body. Drink up. I poured you a double."_

_House tilted his head back and drained the goblet in several gulps._

_Royston frowned. "Are you planning on getting drunk?"_

_House shook off the intruding finger. "Think I'm going to do this sober?"_

_Royston smiled sadly. "Perhaps this won't be as bad as you suspect."_

_"I suspect an awful lot of bad." He handed Royston back the empty glass. "I'm doing this for Wilson."_

_Royston poured them each another and moved around the room, folding his jacket and, to House's sinking stomach, folding back the bed covers. "I know. I counted on it."_

_"Why in the hell don't you just hire someone for this?"_

_"A hooker? I tried that a few times, but the thrill of domination isn't much of a thrill if the rental is only doing it because he knows there is a nice reward coming at the end." Royston explained. "I tried bar hopping, looking for likely gays who wouldn't mind a little roughness for an evening. I found lots of them, too. But those men - god - so boring! Out-of-work models who rattled on about their gigs or their ex-boyfriend. Damn near put me into a coma, most of them. No, I needed this to be real, meaning I wanted someone with the right looks and enough brains whom I knew could challenge me intellectually. That's you. Plus the limp, well, that's just plain old erotic."_

_"You're into cripples?"_

_"I'm into you, Greg. Have been for some time now."_

_House clung to his cane, placing it between himself and Royston, an inferior barrier. "On the other hand - and just for the record, I hate everything about you."_

_"Of course." Royston finished turning down the bed and, to House's shock, immediately stripped his clothing off right there in front of him. In seconds he was naked._

_House didn't look directly at Royston but noted the very white skin, the bare chest and the thick, reddish nest of hair at the man's groin. House had suspected small penis size as a mitigating factor in the man's fetishes for power and dominance, but Royston appeared to be hung fairly average. He was not ugly, but there was nothing beautiful about him either. Not like Wilson, what little of his naked friend House could remember from all those years ago._

_Royston stepped over to him, took the cane from his hands and tossed it on the floor near the bathroom. "We won't need the cane until later. Take off your clothes."_

-

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**THURSDAY (Jan 9) 11:17**

The arrival of Taub and Thirteen snapped House back to the present. He had a patient. There were things to do. Seeing their faces - "What's wrong?"

Thirteen summed it up - "Negative for HIV, allergens, contaminants, and she's getting worse."

Taub added, "Her skin is starting to slough off."

House, memories of the previous night's unpleasantness temporarily breaking apart beneath more urgent matters, frowned at the lab results Thirteen had shoved under his nose. The patient was, indeed, losing her skin. "Put her in a clean room."

-

-

**THURSDAY (Jan 9) 12:35**

Wilson tracked House down as he was sitting on a small bench outside his patient's new quarters. The clean room, with negative air pressure, kept germs out. But it did nothing to rid his patient of whatever was killing her.

Wilson sat down beside him. "Bad, huh?"

House nodded, his mind everywhere; on his patient, on Royston, on his sore backside, on Wilson sitting beside him, oblivious. "Yeah."

"Missed you at lunch."

"Wasn't hungry."

"Oh. Did you see Nolan about your med's?"

That spiked House's "spidey" sense. Wilson was fishing. "Not yet." He pointed through the window with his cane. Behind it, his patient's raw skin was being wrapped in sterile bandages, and she was unconscious. "Sick person. Dying. But you're right, a leg twitch takes priority."

Wilson ignored House's sarcasm. "You've been moving very badly today. Everything all right with the leg? Maybe it's not just the med's - we should get you an MRI to be sure."

"It's fine for now." But it would be a good way to keep Wilson off-track as to the nature of his real problem, and House tucked Wilson's worry away for future manipulations. "Her skin's coming off for no apparent reason."

"Where's your team?"

"Repeating every test."

House seemed off his game, and because Wilson feared he knew why, he found himself blurting out - "Are you using again?"

House turned to look sharply at him. "Oh. I get it. I'm all alone again, and because Wilson isn't around to save me from myself, it has to be that I'm back on drugs."

Wilson sighed. But now that he had brought it up - "You're acting disconnected, you look haggard, you've lost weight and your limping almost as badly as you did right after the infarction. If it's not drugs, it has to be booze. And if it's not that, I'm scared to know what it might be."

"It's a sick patient and I can't come up with a single plausible theory as to why she's dying right under my nose!" House heaved himself to his feet. "You want to help me?" He pointed his cane at the window again. "Help me figure out that." House walked away. "Otherwise stay out of my business."

Wilson watched his friend gimp away, his lurching gate a painful thing to watch. The outburst wasn't necessarily out-of-character for his friend, but the timing, the degree of anger, the instant attempt to deflect, and House's (Wilson had been alarmed to see), _scared_ look - those were. House was sounding and looking more and more like the House from a year and half ago. The alcoholic, Vicodin addicted House. The House who's world was crumbling only he was too sick to notice.

On top of all of that, House's rapid retreat, his sudden need to put distance between himself and Wilson, only confirmed that he had been right to worry. Whether it was drugs, booze or something worse that House was hiding, Wilson now knew for sure that all was not right with his friend.

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Part III asap


	3. Chapter 3

**EVEN TRADE**

**Part III**

By GeeLady

Pairing: H/OMC, W/OFC & H/W

Ratings: NC-17 Adult, SLASH, ANGSTY. (What _else_ have you ever got from me??)

Warnings: Non-con, blackmail, mentions of addictions, drugs, self-harm.

Summary: House becomes the object of someone's dangerous obsession, but it's _Wilson's_ freedom that hangs in the balance.

**This Story**: I started writing before I saw episode 6x10, and it acknowledges everything up to and including "Wilson", with the exception of Wilson and House going in together on the loft Cuddy didn't get. In my fic', they are not living together and it continues to deviate from there.

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**Thursday November 19, 2010 - 20:09**

"If you have a mind to take any of this to the police or try and harm me in any way, you should know that I've taken out insurance for such ill-advised action."

House tipped back his head and downed the contents in the shot glass. The waitress brought them another tray of a half dozen drinks. House had imbibed most of the previous servings. The expensive Scotch burned a trail down his esophagus to his stomach, leaving behind a warming glow. With each shot he felt a little bit more alive for the duration of its delightful liquid journey but, lifting his eyes again, he looked across the table to see that Royston was still there, and instead it dried up inside him.

Royston and his cloak and dagger shit.

House chuckled, letting himself enjoy the evening for once - the alcohol, not the company. "Let me guess." He began, his thoughts turning more and more outward, his mouth running free-er and free-er. "You have all of the information about Naomi Hesch kept in a safety deposit box somewhere, the key and combo of it kept with some small time lawyer who has no idea what a fucked up prick you really are, and if I say or do anything to alter out agreement, like shoot you in the head or something equally wonderful, your missed weekly phone call to said lawyer will result in that lawyer sending the incriminating evidence to the cops." House took a breath, and then another shot of liquid gold. It had been a long, difficult speech, his tongue wandering on a word here and there.

House slammed the tiny empty glass down on the table. "More alcohol!" If Royston was paying, he was drinking. It was the one itsy, bitsy positive during their otherwise dramatically distasteful get-together's. It was the only part he enjoyed and the only part that was a must in order for him to keep it up - and by _it_, he did not mean his dick. Sex with the Dirty Dean required liberal amounts of delicious lubrication, and a mind and body that didn't care. Bending over for Royston while sober was unthinkable.

"Am I close, Captain Evil?"

Royston smiled into his own glass. "Something like that."

House stared at the other patrons in the pub Royston had summoned him to. At least this place wasn't so hoity-toity that he didn't fit in. Royston's high-society persona was slacking tonight - not that House was _grateful_ to the bastard or anything.

House looked as little as possible at Royston, because tonight was not a night of two guys drinking in a bar. Hell, their nights together, (or afternoons, lunch-times or what-have-you), were never just drinks or food - and Royston sure as hell never came for the conversation. Well - he _did_, but only as an appetizer. House poured himself out another. Royston had sprung for the finest Scotch in the place and he was going to make short work of it. He knocked back two more shots in rapid succession, his mind approaching the welcomed state of slippery thought. Nothing got in, nothing hurt, nothing mattered.

Tonight was a "date" night, and that meant not just a sticky-quicky on Royston's desk with the blinds drawn or a one-two blow-job in House's storage room, but a long night of rolling hell under the sheets. House hoped Royston would forego the cane for the evening and just be satisfied with his more standard roulette of sex in all the usual positions. Naturally some of those positions were harder on House than Royston, not that Royston ever cared - or even noticed.

Royston finished his drink and paid the bill. House downed his ninth shot of the evening, and picked up the Scotch bottle, following Royston out to a waiting cab, barely managing to keep upright. The driver closed the doors for them, turned up the heat against the bitter November night frost, climbed in behind the wheel and pulled away from the curb.

After ten minutes or so, the cabbie pulled up at the front entrance to another in a long list of hotels, each one of them now replete with bad memories. "The Westin tonight, huh?" House muttered. One of Royston's better choices. Occasionally, when Royston was in the mood to squirt during his lunch-hour, or when he was angry with House about something, he would pick House up from his office unannounced and take him to a nearer, and much cheaper, motel, where he would pound House until his own sexual drives, or his own crazed need to control, dissipated. Though they were over more quickly, those were the dates House hated the most, because those were the times when Royston was roughest. He would grind and bite and cause as much hurt as would remain un-noticeable and, for twenty minutes or so, become nearly unrecognizable as a human being.

House had learned to disguise his after-date funny walks within the already funny walk of his limp. If his team or Wilson, or anyone else suspected anything was going on between him and the Dean, professionally or otherwise, no one mentioned it. Sometimes House was almost disappointed that no one did. Some days he wanted it all to come to a screeching, crashing end.

Then Wilson would cross his mind and he'd hunker down again for another few months.

Royston, for the first hour, was in one of his gentle moods, and spent an inordinate amount of time merely kissing House and whispering sexy things into his ear. "I'm going to fuck you so hard. I know you love this. I _know_ it, baby, and do you know why? Because you come for me. _Every_ time you come for me, and I know you love me for it." House had heard it and more hundred times before; on and on and on it would go.

What an ego.

House hated it when, under Royston's hands and urgent cock, he came. But as a male, physically he pretty well had no choice. Occasionally the bizarre thought would occur that it would have been better for him to have been born a woman, because women can control, usually, whether they come or not, or enjoy it or not. As a female, he could have loathed Royston and his vagina would have voted right along with him.

As a male, his penis obeyed Royston's manipulations and finger friction like a good little upright soldier. Royston's hand-strokes and sucking making House Jr. stand and salute with military duty. His father would have been proud. After talking, pleading and arguing with his independent-minded equipment, it would come hard anyway, whether he wanted it to or not. After years of an empty dating calendar, now that he was getting all the sex he could ever want, every day House wished _that _day was the day it would end. He never wanted to look into the eyes of anyone this way ever again. Not prone and vulnerable. Not from the bottom-up.

It had been nearly a year, and there was no end in sight to Royston's appetites. House had tried discouraging the man's advances by showing up stinking like a outhouse, looking like a wino who hadn't seen a comb or a toothbrush for years, and generally physically defying Royston by any method he could think up that would not result in a beating or - worse - Wilson being hurt. All attempts to drive Royston off had failed, universally soliciting only laughter from Royston rather than disgust. On rarer occasions, House's passive Gandhi-like philosophy of resistance had only brought him to his knees with a few of the Dean's well placed fists.

Then, always foremost in House's mind, was Wilson. Royston still had Wilson's good life hanging over his head like the proverbial sword. Problem was, House loved that life of Wilson's as much as he loved Wilson himself. So every week when Royston snapped his fingers, House danced.

House tried to scatter his thoughts in different directions once Royston was inside him, pumping and jerking up and down, grunting and sweating like a pig. House could feel his own build of tension, the bundles of nerves growing more and more excited, the gland that caused him so much grief storing up a crazy attack of wonderful, and hating it. Denying it's existence until that instant when he, groaning involuntarily, came all over his own stomach while Royston continued to pump, growling obscenities into his ear; the words now not so tender. "You fucking hot whore. I'm going to fuck you until you're used up, Greg! You're mine! I own you and your cock. You _get _that?"

Royston thrust two or three final times. "Did you hear me, you goddamn slut!?" He snarled in House's ear, who had turned his head away from him, as he always did.

That, as it often did, angered Royston but at the same time made him come all the harder in those few seconds of lust and fury, filling House up with himself. No condoms - _ever_ - allowed. His slut would be marked each and every time.

Royston finished, collapsed for a moment, then sat up, his limp dick falling out of his sex slave. He roughly turned House on the bed so he was facing him and back-handed him across the chin. It was the least likely spot to leave a mark. "I asked you a question!" Royston leaned over and hissed an inch from House's face, nose to nose, "Did you hear me, slut? I own you."

When House continued to defy him by keeping his mouth shut, refusing to acknowledge Royston's power, the raging rapist hit him again, this time his ring coaxing a small drop of blood from House's bottom lip. A tiny cut. It wouldn't show much.

His slut would make up an excuse for its presence. His slut was clever. "Fucking answer me, or so help me I'll rape that fucking defiant mouth." One of Royston's favorite perversions, but not one that could be conjured up out of need. When that perversion showed its head, it arrived under hard driving stimuli and genuine sex/dominance fury.

During those especially frenzied encounters, Royston's face was transformed. In the heat of his sexual assaults, he became white of face and blank of expression except for the mask of sheer, uninhibited glee that coated him head to foot. As he indulged in the sexual suffering that he directly caused, he soared like a vulture above his dead thing. A creature gone mad.

House had experienced that particular treat from Royston once before and he didn't want to experience it ever again. "Yes." He whispered, hoping that was enough to divert Royston from his fevered desire for more violence.

Royston turned his head and put his ear to House's lips. "What did you say, slut? I can't hear you."

"I said yes." House spoke louder.

Royston turned to look at him eye to eye again. The fire in his own had died down. His pupils were no longer black pinholes in bugging whites, his hands eased their painful grip and his voice returned to the same controlled instrument he used every day at the hospital. "There." He said. "Was that so difficult?" Royston licked his lips. "But you do have such a wonderfully sweet mouth, Greg. I love it when you suck me off. But I especially love it when you displease me and then _have _to."

With sex Royston punished as well as pleasured. To him, there lay no distinction.

"But," Royston finally crawled off of him and House turned on his left side, willing the soreness in his anus to fade, the twitching in his leg to still, the swelling in his lip to go down, and a terrible fiery car crash to befall Royston on his way home tonight.

"But," Royston was saying while House only marginally listened. He was waiting for the "Goodbye. It's been a lovely evening." Royston's first stop in his transformation back into something approximating human.

"But, work tomorrow as you know." Royston entered the bathroom and House relaxed as the shower started. He had a few minutes to shrug off the whole evening. A necessity if he was to walk into work tomorrow like he'd spent his evening with a friendly game of television baseball.

Royston finished his shower and entered the hotel room dressed and ready to go. "Goodnight, House. It's been a lovely evening." That was House's cue to get dressed and leave. Royston liked to arrive together, but he liked to depart alone, scrubbed clean under the guise of a respectable businessman. "Let's do this again soon." He added.

That was a new one, House mused. Unfortunately, _soon_ would always come too soon.

House ignored Royston for a moment, imagining himself rising and walking to the bathroom, and smashing the lamp over Royston's head as he passed. The image of Royston's brain smeared over the area rug was an especially satisfying fantasy. House pictured it often.

But then he thought of Wilson, got up for real, and limped passed the lamp. Royston's eyes were always on him when he walked. Royston had a particularly acute fetish for House's old injury and his state of cripple-dom. Royston used House's handicap to excite himself and to threaten with pain when on occasion the excitement didn't quite cut it for him.

House showered, shrugged into his shirt and pulled jeans up over burning cheeks.

As was his habit, Royston was already gone.

House took a cab home. The way home House always paid for himself. It fed Royston the illusion that their little sexual romps were mutually enjoyed, and that his underling fuck for the evening had come of his own accord.

At times, it was almost enough to convince House as well.

-

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**November 25, 19:35**

Wilson sought out Cuddy on the phone. Over the previous several months, House was acting more and more remote and uncommunicative. House had repeatedly insisted it was due to work and extra leg pain but Wilson had heard those excuses before and was surprised by their lack of invention. Not up to House's usual level of creativity at all.

Wilson listened to the phone ring at the other end. His was about to break his promise to House, but he was now convinced that House was using again, and not just a little here and there, but back to his old dangerous daily levels of narcotics. Binges would follow, then outbursts and rages, then OD's or seizures, and God knew what might follow that. Hallucinations again, delusions, a hospital stay - maybe this time with House never coming home.

"Hello?" It was Cuddy.

"Cuddy." Wilson wanted to speak to Lucas but he didn't want her asking too many questions. He had a plausible sounding excuse for calling all ready for her. "Um, hi. Listen I was thinking of investing in this high return real estate deal, and I was hoping Lucas would let me hire him to do a little investigating. I'd like to know whether this guy is on the up and up."

"Oh." Cuddy sounded uninterested in the deal, but naturally a little curious about him. "How are you?" And of course "H-how's House?"

"I'm good. Real good. Leanne's fine. House, well, you know House...so little changes with him." He hoped that was vague enough to discourage any more detailed inquiries.

"Glad to hear it." No she wasn't. Cuddy wasn't glad or sad or anything. She was simply being so perfectly polite it was painful to listen to. "Here's Lucas."

Wilson breathed a sigh of relief. Thank god. "Lucas?" Wilson made sure it was him then let the words tumble from his mouth in one long, unbroken string. "Listen, I really need your help. Do you remember when House hired you to do a background check on Royston? Um - look, I think House has got himself in some really deep shit over that and he doesn't know how to crawl back out. But he won't let me help him - he won't tell me anything at all. So I need to know - did you-"

"- Wilson." Lucas interrupted the many sentences, "Sorry, man, I wish I could help you, but I turned up shit on Royston. House didn't tell you?"

"No." He says almost nothing to me anymore. Wilson's heart sank. "You really found nothing?" This was disappointing news. Lucas apologized from his end. "Oh, I understand. It's just...that's too bad. I was hoping..."

For what? Wilson wasn't sure. All he knew was House was drifting away from him and Wilson could see the shank that tethered the much neglected good ship Friends to the dock was near to snapping in two.

"Sorry." Lucas said into the phone. "Listen, Rachael's crying, I have to go."

Wilson felt helpless. "Yeah, okay. Uh, thanks anyway." and hung up. He returned to the living room with two cups of cocoa and whipped cream.

"Everything okay?" Leanne asked, her petite legs curled up on the couch, her soft dark hair draped in a perfect waterfall over one shoulder. She was a "Cosmetics Coordinator", meaning she traveled between states bringing her sales ladies new beauty products to push and new methods of pushing them.

"Yeah. Just needed to check in with work. I've got this seven year old patient who probably won't make it through until morning." Wilson settled on the couch, sipping his cocoa - not a favorite, but Leanne always liked a cup just before bed. "I really should be there." He mused aloud, sounding as though it was the one place he'd rather _not_ be.

Wilson leaned back and sighed contentedly, waiting. Leanne was a sucker for son stories and a stickler for fulfilling her obligations to her clients. She went so far as to be on call for all and any emergency, though what could possible constitute an emergency in the genteel land of beauty bars and mascara he couldn't imagine. Wilson figured she liked being on call. It made her feel as though her job was as crucial as his was. It made her feel needed.

Wilson had realized soon after the wedding that this time, he had begun sleeping with, not a proxy of House, but of himself. One of the few positives was that Leanne took off on a regular basis for out-of-town business and it left him free to do as he pleased for a few days, and sometimes a week or more.

But now that House was avoiding him, he had nothing much to fill that free time.

"Are you sure you shouldn't be at the hospital tonight? I know you..."

Though she mostly didn't.

"...you like to be there for your patients. It's what makes you such a good doctor."

She was buttering him up and assuring her place in his important physician's life all at the same time. If she was supportive of his insane schedule, Leanne no doubt reasoned, then he would love her all the more and stick with the pretty but dull young woman who sold vanity to the rich and bored, and hope to the aging and desperate. Wilson suspected Leanne understood as well as he did that they had bored of each other only months after the wedding, but each had settled in complacently for the duration, each believing that they would be unlikely find better prospects elsewhere.

Wilson sighed. With this particular failure, he was sorely familiar. But being in the complete dark about House - that was a mine field of new and scary. "You really think I should go in?" Of course she would.

"Of course I do. We'll still have the weekend together."

Wilson sighed, feigning weariness of the cross of responsibility all doctor's bore on bowed shoulders. "Okay, but I _promise_ I won't be long."

Leanne smiled wanly. A good effort. "Okay, honey. I'll wait up for you."

Of course, she wouldn't.

-

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**November 25, 20:03**

Wilson found House asleep on his Eames chair, covered in his winter coat. He opened the door silently, being careful not to rattle the blinds that were closed to block out the bright hall lighting. Here the lights were not dimmed for sleep, since no patient rooms were situated in this area of the fourth floor.

Wilson had enough light, though, to see the bags beneath House's eyes and the odd way he was resting his right leg, curled over and hugging his left. Either the leg or his back had been especially painful today. House's hair, which he now kept almost buzzed close to his head, framed his thin face. His chin whiskers were thicker than usual, like he had spent the last few nights at the hospital.

Wilson glanced into the conference room. The white board stood there, still and blank. No words from a recent differential marred its pristine face. A blank white board meant a blank slate. House had no admitted patient at this time. So why was he sleeping in his office?

Wilson had evidently been thinking too loudly, or House simply had a second sense where his younger friend was concerned, because at that moment, the sleeping man opened his eyes and looked up at Wilson staring down at him. House sat up, throwing off the coat. "What the hell are you doing?" No anger.

Wilson figured he may as well go for the truth, since sneaking into his office and watching him sleep was far too odd an action to try and lie away. "I'm worried about you." He began. The big blast now. "I know you're using again."

House thrust his cane under him and heaved himself to his feet. Wilson followed him, spilling out as many words as he could before House shut him down or left in a rage.

"You have to be, House. You're distant, you haven't confided in me in months. We don't even eat lunch together anymore - last week you blew off a Reuben sandwich and dessert on me, for no reason at all."

"There _was_ a reason." House snapped at him, his face angry and looking away, looking everywhere, hiding itself away - _running_ away. "I wasn't hungry."

"Right." Wilson threw a hand to House's bony frame. "You've lost - what? - fifteen pounds? Twenty? You're obviously over-eating."

Wilson sucked in a breath when a fresh thought popped into his head. "Oh my god. House, are...are you sick? If you are, then I'm sorry I've been so hard on you, but-"

"-I'm not sick."

Wilson was exhausted, and he had only been in the room five minutes. "Then _what_? Why won't you talk to me anymore?"

House looked at him. "I'm going through a rough period." He said quietly, still not directly addressing his friend, his eyes still finding other things to look at. "And Nolan already knows, in case you have designs on running to him about this."

"I already did."

At House's violated expression, Wilson offered a quick hand of commiseration. "Only the one time, it was a few months back. I was worried about you, so I called him. We discussed the possibility that you..." Wilson let his pleading hand fall to his side.

"...Were using again. Yeah, I know. Nolan told me all about it." House said.

Still not angry, Wilson saw, despite his snooping into his friend's private business.

"You think you know everything, but you don't." House told him, his face wary, his words tired. "As usual, you _assume_." House sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead with one hand, trying to rub away the sleep, or the weariness because he hadn't had enough of it for months on end. "I am using again, but _not _Vicodin." House underlined it for him. "I've been _drinking_ again." House sat down behind his desk. "And me and Nolan are working on it. So there's no need for you to run to my rescue."

It made some certain sense. "I'm your friend. I want to help."

"You helping _me_ wrecked your other three relationships. Me needing _you_ killed your last one. This time, you should just go home and be with your wife. Stop hovering over me. I'm fifty-one. I _can_ take care of myself just fine."

Wilson knew House was keeping other details from him, but he decided not to push for any more tonight. That he had gotten this far with House granted him some little relief from worry. At least they were talking. "You take care of yourself." Wilson agreed. "But not "just fine"."

"Then that's my problem." House said, shaking his head. "Not yours." The conversation was over.

Wilson looked at his friend, and was left ill-at-ease when House turned his eyes away. House was almost always in control, but even he had a tell. House had lied to Wilson in the past, but he always hated doing it, and the tell was there, plain as day. Wilson was lost as to what else to do about it, though. "I miss you, House."

He had been missing him for some time. Back when House's strange behavior had begun, it had been small changes but those changes had grown larger as the weeks had passed. Wilson had tried cajoling House into nights out, bribing him with pizza and non-alcoholic beer, even offering to pay for another stint in substance rehab' if needed (_not _at Mayfield), and to all of them House had responded but only here and there, in small doses (except the offer of rehab), but never like his old self might have. Going along with his friend, yes. Drinking the drinks and eating the pizzas. To Wilson those times had felt artificial, as though House were still trying to play the part of the close friend but in reality, was a man taking steps back and back. Wilson could hardly _see_ his friend in this man anymore.

Wilson had tried leaving him alone, hoping if he allowed House the time alone, giving him some space from his interfering friend, that might bring House around. But that only resulted in an even wider gap between them. House no longer confided in him, no longer cracked jokes with him - House was disappearing.

Wilson's small confession of the heart left House visibly shaken, and that more than anything convinced Wilson more that there was something going on here other than the problem of House being back on the sauce.

"I'm sorry." House said. "Mind if I go back to sleep now? My leg is killing me."

Wilson put his hands on his hips, hung his head a little, thinking. Considering. Trying to reason it out. It didn't compute. "I want us to have lunch at least twice a week." He said. It was a gentle demand. A need from a friend, and if for no other reason than to keep an eye on him. Wilson knew House could never say no when he used his needful voice. It was a bit of a dirty trick, that voice, but desperate times...

House nodded. "Okay. Sounds good."

Too quick, that agreement. Wilson nodded. "Okay..." He took a deep breath. A small victory. "Okay. That's good. Thanks." Wilson turned, feeling like the whole painful, Unknown Thing was still in flight, anchorless and out of control, soon headed for a crash. There was nothing to be done tonight. He could think of nothing. Would he be eating lunch alone or not? Incredibly, he still didn't know for sure. "See you tomorrow." Wilson said, then enunciated each word distinctly, "at _lunch_."

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Once Wilson was gone, House gimped to the men's washroom. It was deserted and he found the first clean looking toilet. Flipping the lid up with a sharp bang that echoed in the hard confines of the stall, he vomited up every morsel he still had in his stomach from dinner. He puked twice more, the third time bringing up nothing but strings of bile. House held onto the toilet with both hands, willing every vile act, every cowardly whimper of pain, and every single time his cock had let him down by coming under the slimy fingers of the bastard who would not leave him alone, wishing all of that would be expelled as well, and drain away along with the vomit. So he could feel clean again.

House let himself rest there for a moment, imagining Royston's head stuck in a toilet bowl after twenty men had used it for numbers One _and_ Two. House imagined Royston breathing in the human waste through his nostrils. He imagined the rapist prick begging House to save his life and pleading for a death-bed forgiveness.

House imagined himself walking away with a smile while Royston drowned in foul shit.

House returned to his office, popped a half dozen Tums, and lay on his chair, hoping to gather what sleep was left of the night. He had to remember: lunch with Wilson tomorrow. As he fell off into slumber, he repeated it: Wilson. Lunch. Tomorrow. _Don't_ forget... Once House thought he had it set in memory - not so easy a task as a year ago - he curled up once more under his wool winter coat and fell into a fitful sleep.

-

-

Lunch was an uneasy affair of forced jokes and long silences, most of which House spent looking out the cafeteria window.

Wilson felt just as hopeless as the previous night. House's behavior was that of a man on the edge, but of what he couldn't guess - other than the drinking perhaps. "So, you and Nolan are working on your little problem?"

For a moment, House hadn't heard him, then turned his head. "Yes, _my_ little problem."

Wilson decided to venture forth cautiously. "Was it the work, the stress of being back, or..."

House waited. "Or what?"

"Or was it maybe, the living alone again?"

House didn't feel like shoving Wilson off with an artificially sparked argument or deflecting him with attempts at humor and half truths. He was too tired. "Bits of all of it I guess." He turned to stare out the window again. It wasn't the reason, but it was true. "I don't like living alone." That also was true.

Wilson felt the old sanded smooth guilt. "I,...I think I...probably jumped into this marriage faster than I should have. She - we both did."

House's ears perked up at that and though at any other time in the last year he would have been overjoyed to hear it, now it left him quaking in fear. If there was no Leanne present to keep Wilson busy, there was one less barrier between Wilson and learning about The Deal. And Wilson learning about The Deal meant he would know the truth, and Royston would ruin him for it.

Wilson shrugged at the idiot that was his heart. "What's new, huh?"

House would love nothing more than for Wilson to lean on him for support, so he could lean back. So they could learn to rest their troubles and desires on each other and maybe make all of this sickness inside him go away. But Royston would make good on his threat. Royston would crush Wilson. "What about counseling?"

It was a thoughtful suggestion from one friend to another. That's how Wilson knew House was not sincere at all in saying it. House didn't do platitudes, he did truthful. Wilson knew House knew as well as he did that his marriage was broken and in line to be swept away with all the others. The House he knew - the House he knew from a year and a half ago, would _never_ have put such an empty idea out there for his consideration. The House _he_ knew would have called him a moron and given him the number for a good divorce lawyer. And then got him drunk.

House finished his coke and stood. "Gotta' go. Thanks for lunch."

To Wilson's astonishment, House pulled out a twenty dollar bill from his wallet and dropped it on the table. "It's on me for once." Wilson watched his friend walk away. This was simply uncanny, and in a bad way. Did House not want to owe him anything? Did House want to be free of the obligations of his friendship?

If so, it was aberrant behavior. Uncomfortable. _Unnatural!_

Wilson had just eaten lunch with a perfect stranger.

-

-

**December 05, 2010, 21:13**

Royston was delighted with the transformation. Greg no longer fought him - at least, not as much. The diagnostician was beginning to enjoy the regular sex and the powerful orgasms that came with it. Royston smiled down at Greg who, though never smiling, had his eyes squeezed shut in the embrace of a powerful come. A beautiful sight to behold. Royston took the soft skin of House's shoulder between his incisors and bit down hard.

House yelped and by it Royston was himself spurred to a shuddering come the likes of which he hadn't had in weeks. He pounded into Greg and moaned at the site of the marks his teeth had left behind. Greg had several tattoos now, all him; all Royston. The sex master, the provider of raw, uninhibited carnal lusts.

Royston rolled off and House grabbed a tissue out of the bedside dispenser, spending a moment or two patting his shoulder with it to sop up the blood leaking from the tiny fissures of broken skin. This time the bite hadn't been deep, but it would probably scar. House watched Royston move around the room, compulsively tidying up the take-out dishes from the hotel kitchen, and unfolding his carefully pressed pants and shirt. When he entered the bathroom to turn on the shower, House sat up on the edge of the bed. Royston hadn't been so rough tonight, a welcome change in their frequent trysts. The sex was almost....pleasurable. That was stretching it. House didn't hate the sex, just the sex sicko that came with it.

He didn't like Royston's little "love bites" though, and he'd have to start wearing the turtleneck again for a while, until he was sure the scar wouldn't be obvious with only a tee-shirt to cover it.

When House's turn came to use the shower, he held his aching thigh up to the hot water first then, using a copious amount of soap, slaked the evidence of the evening's messy activities off his skin. Royston did love his fancy party drippings. The thick sugar icing was especially difficult to rinse away.

His abdomen was streaked with Royston's drying semen and some of his own, and that he removed with a soapy washcloth. Lastly, House carefully washed his backside and the tiny entrance that, day and night, Royston obsessed over. The man had taken to sending him fucking _love notes _for God's sake. Emails every day about what he would do to him the next time they were naked and in the same room.

House never knew when that would be or what room. As fast as those emails arrived through cyberspace, that's how quickly House deleted them.

When House was finished with his shower and getting dressed, which he always did in the bathroom too, Royston would already have left.

House approved of that part of their relationship. God, long, hard sex, followed by a rapid exit. House felt calm and satiated. At least the regular sex relieved the stress that providing his body for sex caused. House laughed humorlessly. It was ironically funny in a pathetic, bottom of the slime bucket way. House always felt calm after being _thoroughly_ fucked by Royston. But was not calm at all by being so thoroughly _fucked_ by Royston.

It was two AM, and House called a cab. The Dean was a piece of work, but he did have his talents.

-

-

This last year had seen House's cure rate drop to under ninety percent. Foreman had requested a transfer to another department, believing, whether because of alcohol abuse or age, that House had lost his touch. The diagnostician's first loss had been Prudence. The woman's skin had sloughed off and despite the clean room and their efforts to prevent infection, infection had set in well, finally killing her.

If House hadn't been drinking up until that point, Foreman figured the man at least had an excuse now to take it up again. Royston had approved Foreman's transfer and House's team was down to three. Chase, Thirteen and Taub hung on, did their jobs, and tried to learn from House despite his ever worsening temper and frequent absences from the hospital.

"Do you think he's sick? Maybe it's cancer." Thirteen asked her colleagues.

Taub was reading through possible case files, as House was two hours late and hadn't even called in yet. "It's not cancer. If it was, Wilson would have caught it already. If House is sick, he should go to a doctor, except he is a doctor so if he really _is_ sick, he already knows it and has decided to do nothing about it." He looked across the table at her. "House is House. The more he changes, the more he stays the same." His short term partner from last year had called him, offering him more money to come back to the practice of plastic-loving patients. If nothing improved, he would take the offer and thank his lucky stars.

Chase was playing with pencils, spinning them, building houses with them, chewing on them in boredom. "I'll tell you what's wrong - House is an alcoholic. Which means there's something wrong that _isn't_ about alcohol." It was turning into another day where there was nothing to do but clinic duty, a task that Royston had for some reason exempted House from since taking over Cuddy's position. They, unfortunately, he had not been exempted.

Thirteen considered it. "He's become really...remote. Look how thin he is, that's a classic indication of long term alcoholism or drug abuse."

Chase said it again. "I don't care how much booze he drinks or drugs he takes, something was screwing with House before he ever lifted a bottle again or popped a pill." Chase reminded them - "My father was a neglectful, verbally abusive bastard who left when I was nine and my mother was a pathetic raging drunk who died when I was sixteen. It's a miracle I'm not as screwed up as he is, so if House really is as screwed up as he _looks_, then trust me - there's something else going on underneath."

Chase took the pencil between two fingers and spun it, watching as it wildly danced across the table and rolled off onto the floor to land in a pile of other pencils that had been sent to a similar fate.

Chase sat back and sighed. Another five minutes of the clock killed by pencil hockey. "If House is going down, something gave him a push."

-

XXX

Part IV asap


	4. Chapter 4

**EVEN TRADE**

**Part IV**

By GeeLady

Pairing: H/OMC, W/OFC & H/W

Ratings: NC-17 Adult, SLASH, ANGSTY. (What _else_ have you ever got from me??)

Warnings: Non-con, blackmail, mentions of addictions, drugs, self-harm.

Summary: House becomes the object of someone's dangerous obsession, but it's _Wilson's_ freedom that hangs in the balance.

**This Story**: I started writing before I saw episode 6x10, and it acknowledges everything up to and including "Wilson", with the exception of Wilson and House going in together on the loft Cuddy didn't get. In my fic', they are not living together and it continues to deviate from there.

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**Monday January 11, 2011 **- **09:12**

House watched him scribble things in the chart, motions he had done himself countless times in Cuddy's clinic. Now PPTH's clinic was Royston's clinic in Royston's hospital, and House hadn't needed to do a single hour of clinic duty since. Taking into account all he'd had to provide for the bastard since then, House would have welcomed a few dozen hours a week working in its paint-peeling, mind-numbing confines without complaint.

"You have a substantial amount of tearing, Doctor House." The young clinician said sternly, but keeping his tone respectable. After all this was a doctor who not only was _The_ Doctor House, but a physician who had twenty years experience on him diagnosing and treating patients. Never-the-less - "I'm legally obliged to ask if this is the result of non-consensual intercourse. If this is the result of-"

"-It was consensual." Clipped. Neutral. Don't get pissy or the guy will assume the worse. He did it for Wilson. He will still do it for him. "We were just - we were experimenting and we got a little carried away. I didn't feel any ill-effects until the next day." At least his leg had been behaving. Sex did decrease stress and increase endorphins. The more sex, the less his leg hurt. His backside on the other hand...

Doctor Wadji furrowed his dark brows. "This damage appears to have been done over time. There is some older scarring."

"I didn't say it was the first time we played around, I said it's the first time I felt any discomfort from it."

House could tell Wadji didn't completely believe him but, like most people in his position, he was unable to take it any further without more corroborative evidence or cooperation from the patient. "I'll write you a prescription for some ointment that'll speed the healing, and I want you to increase the level of lubrication." He scribbled out something House recognized. A topical solution he had often written for homosexuals who, by the amount of anal fissuring, liked it just as rough. "Are you in a committed relationship? How long has it been since you've had an immune panel? I can arrange a test if you wish."

House knew what he meant. An HIV test. Committed relationship? "Sort of." Less committed than calculated. Convoluted. Camouflaged. Castrated. Cancerous. Cataclysmal. "We have an agreement." There, the truth obscured within perfect honesty. It was sickening to think so, but he believed Royston was faithful to him. Since House did pretty much whatever Royston asked, sexually, the man really had no reason to cheat. _I_ ought to be committed.

Again.

"Well, _if_ you're committed to each other, and your partner agrees, I loathe to say it but _not_ using condoms would decrease the level of friction; that would ease your discomfort a little. But unless you're absolutely certain, it's safer if condo -"

House cut off further discussion of his night-time activities, and the unpleasant after-effects - "I'll be okay. Thanks, Doc'."

-

-

House was delighted. Royston was away for five whole days at a conference for his type of doctor - the kind who ran the show from behind a desk and stacks of paperwork. He had almost an entire week free of the SOB, and he was going to party like there was no tomorrow. He was going to lock his doors, order take-out, get stinking drunk and sleep _alone_ in his own bed; unmolested, undisturbed, un-fucked-with. Five days of paradise.

-

-

**January 15, 2011 - 13:04**

Chase opened Wilson's office door unannounced. "You need to come." It was both urgent request and warning.

House was camped out behind his desk, leaning up against its leg, clutching his thigh, sweating buckets and generally looking like a man who was taking his last dying gasps. He groaned so pitifully, Wilson knew almost immediately what the problem was.

"Oh, Christ." He turned to Chase, who had taken it upon himself to drag him into House's office, a room Wilson hardly saw anymore. "Order a stretcher."

Thirteen was watching, Taub was watching, everyone passing by in the hall stopped to gawk, too. For the next five minutes House was the center of attention for the curious.

Wilson scowled at the lot of them. _Vultures!_ He crouched down in front of his friend, his voice full of disappointment yet quietly tender. House needed gloved hands right now. Recriminations and yelling would accomplish nothing.

"It's just his leg, isn't it?" Thirteen asked Wilson, Taub, Chase - whoever. "Breakthrough pain." She said reasonably. "He needs a shot of morphine."

Wilson ignored her except to say "Drugs are the _last_ thing he needs."

Chase guided in the orderlies rolling a stretcher between them. Wilson carefully placed one hand on his friend's shoulder. It was a non-threatening gesture intended to comfort. Wilson was pathetically relieved that House was allowing the touch. His heart fluttered with that sadly ironic crumb of joy. It was the closest they'd been in months, and that was so pathetic, so far from how far they had once-upon-a-time come after Mayfield, that Wilson wanted to cry. "House,...when? _Why?_ Of all things, why this?"

House was doubled over, both hands clawing at his thigh that was screaming at him. He could hardly hear Wilson speak, the pain drowned out everything but his own ragged breaths, his angrily pounding heart and the blood rushing through in his ears. "I dunno...w-what's wrong." Too many words. He shook his head back and forth. Nothing made sense. This wasn't supposed to happen. Nolan's regime had been working fine. Really well, actually. For a long while now, his pain had dropped to manageable, minimal levels. It was the worst break-through pain he had ever felt. It was a cells on fire 10. It was un-real.

House was helped onto a stretcher and Wilson instructed the orderlies where in the hospital they were to take Doctor House. Wilson and the team helplessly watched until the orderlies had left, then Wilson said to them. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Wait here - I need to talk to everyone."

They respected Wilson, they liked him. He was House's friend or used to be. Maybe he could shed some light on why House had been acting so secretive and anti-social but at the same time, so out-of-control. That it wasn't the first time was small comfort. So they waited.

Wilson left and returned within fifteen minutes. He sat with them at the conference table. "He's detoxing."

Taub didn't turn an eyelash. "Is anyone else here surprised by that?" He looked around at their faces. Only Wilson appeared completely shocked and saddened by the news.

A flash of instinctively protective fury washed through him. "Yes. I am, actually." Wilson chided him. "House was doing well."

"Until a year ago he was." Chase reminded them. Thirteen had nothing to add. Taub waited patiently for Wilson to get to his second point. "What do you want us to do?" Taub asked. If there was anything practical that they _could_ do, that is

Wilson felt the wear in his heart of the many House-silent months. "Does anyone know anything that might shed some light on why he would start using again, I mean that we haven't already talked about?"

This wasn't the first time Wilson had conducted a behind-the-scenes differential where the patient was House. Thirteen spread her hands. "Well, I haven't seen him popping pills, but when there's no patient, he's just not around."

Wilson thought maybe that angle was the way to go. "He doesn't talk to me anymore. So? Where does he go?"

Taub. "Well, he goes out for lunch at least twice a week." At their collective expectant faces - "Well, it's a normal thing for most people, but it's unusual for House."

Chase said. "Does this have something to do with Cuddy do you think?" He ventured. "I mean, yeah she's been gone a year, but he started getting weird - weirder - again just after she left."

Wilson thought about it while staring at his clasped hands. "House was over her. He was doing well. There was no drinking, no pills, he was solving cases - did any of you notice exactly when he started acting _this_ weird? Going downhill again?" And now at the bottom.

Thirteen crossed her arms. "I remember seeing him walking out of Cuddy's office in a hurry one day, but I thought nothing of it. I mean, they were always fighting."

Wilson looked at her. "What day was that? Are you sure it was Cuddy's office or Royston's?"

She seemed confused. "Um, actually, I don't know. I think maybe it was after Cuddy left, but I'm not positive."

Wilson announced. "House asked me to ask Lucas to investigate Royston."

Taub perked up. Until this morning, things had been as dull as beans. "Really? Why?"

Wilson shrugged and spread his hands. "I don't know. But Lucas said he didn't turn up anything."

"House probably wanted something on Royston so he could manipulate him." Taub said. "He used to run roughshod over Cuddy. Maybe he figured he needed extra leverage against the new guy."

"Did anyone ever see them argue?" Chase asked. "I mean, House probably doesn't get along with Royston. He doesn't get along with anyone really." He threw a hand in Wilson's direction. "I mean, except for you."

_Not even me lately. Can't get along or fight with someone you hardly ever see. _

"I've actually never seen Royston come in here." Thirteen said.

They looked at each other. Wilson tilted his head. "Well, he doesn't come to my office either. Maybe twice this whole year."

"Royston's a by-the-book man." Taub said. "He's in charge, and he likes protocol. We go to _him_."

Wilson shook his head. Nothing really added up. Royston had approved his drug-trial funding. His own practice was booming. Last week Doctor Johnstone had invited him and Leanne up to his cabin in Augusta for a long weekend at the end of next month. All of this because Royston believed in backing his brightest stars, and boosting the name of Princeton Plainsboro Hospital. An excellent reputation drew in the elite who were seeking treatment and, provided they were kept happy and sent home well, their generous contributions as well. As far as he knew, Royston had thus far left House alone to do his job. Nothing there added up.

Wilson felt let down. Eight sharp eyes and four good brains and still - zilch. "Okay." He would drop by and see House before going home. He carried no expectations back to the room.

"Hey." Wilson approached the bed, relieved to see House looking much better. Whatever the attending had put him on, his pain was under control and he was drifting between wakefulness and the fuzzy edge of slumber.

House turned his head to look at his friend. He was sleepy, is eyelids at half-mast. "Hey."

"I suppose if I ask you why you went back on Vicodin, and then lied about it not only to me but to Nolan and everyone else, you'll deny it?"

House sighed. "If you already know the answer, why ask me?"

"Because I don't know the answer. I mean, yes, I know you're back on the pills, but the why I don't know."

"So you know one half but not the other? Seems to me you're missing some crucial facts."

"Like what?" Wilson drew up a chair.

"Like, I am _not_ on Vicodin."

Close to exploding in frustration, Wilson stood and circled the small area of floor. Grabbing his hair on either side of his head he forced himself to stand in one spot long enough to articulate. "Lying to me is pointless, House - I'm not stupid! I recognize the signs of detoxing; specifically, hydrocodone detox'."

House was about to protest again when a flash came over his face, an inward-focusing enlightenment; an insight - his eyes were windows suddenly, his soul naked and exposed to a shocking truth. Wilson watched, fascinated, as a second or two of awareness settled there. Some undisclosed knowledge; some awful thing had come to House's attention. One second his expression had been defiant and now it was horrified. House had been blind, now he saw. House swallowed, his face washed over white. "It's impossible..." He whispered.

What in the hell had he seen? What is?"

"It can't be Vicodin. It _isn't."_

Wilson shook his head. Of course. A denial. A stupid, useless lie since all anyone had to do was check with the attending to learn the truth. Wilson rubbed his eyes. "I just don't get it, House. Can you give me one reason that makes sense? Will you give me, your friend who cares, one - _God!_ - just _one_ reason that isn't a deflection or a lie or an evasion?"

House stared back through the armor he had let drop for a moment, then he erected it once more.

Perhaps, for those few seconds of total vulnerability, what Wilson he had seen on House's face had been a fantasy, because House was now closed off again and guarded. Fear returned. Defenses stronger than ever. "No." He said. So simple. So plain and hurtful. "I can't." And weary. So weary.

Wilson looked away. "House -"

"-Leave me alone, Wilson." Those four words cut through all doubt. House wanted him to stop. House wanted it ended. His concern, their talks - this.

Wilson felt something precious die right there in the room, right at his feet, so near, he could almost clutch it in his hands. But it was elusive, like an idea was elusive. It slipped through his fingers, now as insubstantial as vapor. God, Wilson thought, this is it. This, here, right now, was really it. House was ending their friendship. For him, it was officially over.

Wilson stood up, his feet lead, reason's and why's flying away like seeds on the wind. He took in a deep calming, heart-strengthening breath. He wanted to shake sense into House, or beat him with his fists, or hold him to his chest until he admitted this was all wrong and that he needed help before he disappeared altogether. But instead Wilson concentrated on breathing passed the pain he felt, the hopelessness. The wish to understand, the desire to never let go.

But House turned his head away, looking at the wall. He didn't want any of that.

Wilson took one last look at his best friend of nearly twenty years. "I don't understand you, House. Maybe, I guess I never really have, but...I love you." Wilson looked at the floor. He could not look him in the eye and then walk away. "I'm...lost...with this, House. You've defeated me because _none_ of this makes sense." Wilson nodded. His next words would be the last. They at least made sense to him. They were the truth. "But I love you. I know that much."

House watched his friend leave. The cutting away of Wilson. House figured when it all began that it would eventually come to this. He felt like he was sending the best part of himself off to die. Or, rather in this case, off to live. "I love you, too."

He closed his eyes at the irresistible call of sleep. Though, at this juncture, dying wouldn't be fine too.

-

-

"You goddamn son-of-a-bitch." Were the first words House said to Royston the next time they met up. Royston had arranged a late afternoon pre-date date at a local cafe. Respectable professionals sat at cutesy tables and sipped over-priced coffee, nibbling on deli-meat sandwiches and macaroni salad. House didn't care. He didn't keep his voice down. "Doping me with Vicodin was not part of our deal."

Royston had to have been slipping it into his drinks - in liquid form. More control. More ego. More to let him know who was boss.

Royston bit into his own four-cut sandwich snack. "You were in pain."

Fucking joke. Royston did nothing out of concern. "You're an idiot. Wilson suspects something now. You're the one who wanted to keep this under the radar. I detoxed, you moron. At work. Everyone saw it." House snarled across the short space of checkered table-cloth. "While you were at the conference, my leg hurt so bad I almost went insane. By the end of the week I was ready to chew my goddamn arm off and I didn't know why."

"You're the diagnostician." Unflappable. "You didn't recognize the symptoms of withdrawal?"

The crucial piece had been missing. House shook with anger. He had been clean for over a year, and now he was back to where he had begun. Royston had molded him back into an alcoholic and a junkie. Suddenly his leg feeling so much better on some days made sense. He wanted to wrap his fingers around Royston's neck and squeeze until it snapped. "This is over." He said to Royston.

Royston didn't react other than to chew contentedly. Then - "Hungry?" he asked.

House stared back, utterly astounded at the man's hubris. Sitting in that chair, Royston had lifted superior self-confidence and stark arrogance to soaring new heights. "You really are fucking insane, aren't you?"

"You want to quit?" Royston asked. "Then quit." Calm. Content. Crazy.

"I am. We're done." House stood up and left the restaurant without another word.

-

-

Sharp, steady pounding on his front door brought Wilson from the kitchen and his baking. Using only two fingers of his right hand, he managed to twist the handle and open it, minimizing the amount of floured goo that got smeared all over it.

House was standing there and opened the door the rest of the way with an unsteady kick of his foot.

Wilson, forearms in dough bits up to his elbows, stared in confusion. He could smell the alcohol on his friend, its pungent cloud followed House as he stepped into the apartment. "House? What are-?"

House turned to look at him and Wilson saw it again. That terrible, raped look. Life was chewing House up and the man was standing idly by, letting it happen. House was on the verge of something, only Wilson had no idea what.

"Where's...where's the wife?" He slurred. He had been drinking. Probably since that afternoon, considering the small degree of unsteady list in his stance.

Wilson managed to close his gaping mouth long enough to answer. "She's on a sales trip."

House nodded. "Good." He stepped closer to Wilson. "You were right. It's Vicodin. I didn't..." House looked like he was going to cry. "I didn't wanna' see it."

Wilson felt his heart go out to him. "Look. I'm glad you came to me. We'll get you into rehab' again - I'll pay for it."

House immediately shook his head. "You can't help me." House stepped closer. "But I want..."

Wilson kept his eyes fixed on House's bloodshot blue's that wandered over the walls, afraid to look his friend in the eye. "House, I -"

"-you said you loved me."

Wilson, completely in the dark, but so relieved House had come to him with this, wanted to hold him. But House would not want that. But that he was here was a healthy step in the right direction. "Yes. I meant it. You're my best friend."

House stepped closer. "No!" He said sharply. Closer. "You _love _me." This he almost shouted it. "Right? That's what you said."

Wilson nodded quickly. Vigorously. "House, let me help you."

"_Stop_ saying that." House was whining like a desperate child who needed his dad to keep his promise and make everything all right. House wasn't asking, he was pleading. This was a last call for help, Wilson was sure of it.

House took Wilson's forearm, ignoring the messy flour-dough, and held on, to hold himself up. To steady whatever was making him topple. In a tiny voice. "Stop saying that."

House was falling apart right there in his foyer. "But I do. I care about you."

House looked stricken. He blurted, grief staining every syllable, "_Love_." He insisted. "It was _love_. You said _love_." He swayed, words straining to squeeze passed choking sobs still caught deep in his chest. "You _care_ about the dog, you _care_ about your stupid patients. You _care_ about wife - but you _love_ me." He jabbed his plexus repeatedly with his finger. "You _love_ me. You _said_ so!"

Wilson took House's elbow and tried to steer him toward the living room. "Let's get you cleaned u-"

House shook off Wilson's grip. "Answer me!" House yelled this time, his face twisted in anger. He didn't cry, but he was swaying more and more, like his body was failing him. Or his will. House was thin and pale. Sick with drugs or whatever it was that started him on them again. He looked sad. Profoundly, horribly _sad_.

Wilson nodded. "Yes, House. I love you. I meant what I said." He took House's elbow again to guide him to a chair before he fell down, and this time it seemed House was going to let him, but instead House threw his arms around Wilson's neck and tried to kiss him on the mouth, but missing by inches. "Then prove it." Housed slurred into his ear while planting sloppy wet kisses all over Wilson's shirt collar.

Wilson had expected arguing, anger, drunken accusations and maybe even tears. But he hadn't expected this. He took House's groping hands in his own and pulled them away, forcing House to take a step back. "What the hell are you doing?"

House looked miserable. "I want you to make love to me."

As plain as that. "What?" This wasn't House. It wasn't himself either. "House - no..." Wilson said sharply when House started to crawl all over him again.

House seemed more in control suddenly, and whispered in Wilson's ear. "Come on,...don't you remember? How hot - how _good_ it was?"

Wilson had to turn his head to avoid House's rough, whiskey smelling lips. "That was a long time ago. We were both drunk." The phone rang. "And screwed up." House's cold nose was nuzzling Wilson's neck, his whiskers tickled. His lips and tongue tasted every square inch they could get to. Wilson finally shoved House off of himself, a little more roughly than he had intended. The phone trilled for attention. "House! _Stop_ this."

House stumbled, falling down hard on his backside, his cane flew from his hand and clattered against the nearby heat register.

Wilson, head spinning, watched his friend sit there, dazed. "Wait right here." Wilson barked and ran to get the phone. He spoke into it for a moment then returned.

By this time House, deciding he had sat there long enough, was struggling to his feet. With his unsteady feet under him once again, he located and picked up his cane, moving toward the door to leave. Wilson stepped in front of him. "Wait a second. You come here, drunk and ..._nuts_ - try to kiss me, and now you're just going to leave without any explanation? What the fuck is going on with you, House?" Wilson shouted. "You're a goddamn stranger."

House blinked slowly, seeming to be having difficulty processing Wilson's words. "I wanted ...I thought you loved me. You said so." House stared at the floor, trying to sort through words he thought he had understood, as though he was searching for the Wilson-defined meaning that had to be hidden in the "I love you." "Back at the hospital, you said so..." House sounded lost, his face a collection of confused emotions. "I thought,...I mean I _thought_ you said it..."

"What kind of love did you think I was talking about?" Wilson's tone asked.

House stared at him. He understood. Wilson had meant Friendship love. Concern love. Hiya' pal love. Not _love_ love.

Wilson still had one hand on House's arm, gripping the sleeve of his leather jacket.

Shaking it off, House answered. "The kind where you don't treat me like I'm a leper."

Wilson hadn't meant for House to take the rejection like that. "House, even if I wanted to...do that with you, I'm married."

House laughed. A long chuckle of genuine enjoyment, the giggles rising and falling as the energy for its indulgence drained away in seconds flat. "Like that ever stopped you before."

"House - "

House shook his head and stepped through the doorway. "Forget I even came here tonight, okay?" House, still drunk, but clear enough to request it as a favor. "Okay? Just,...just forget...this. Go back to your pots. You got _dough_ to care about."

Wilson, reeling at the bizarre spectacle he had just been an involuntary part of, watched as his friend limped heavily down the sidewalk toward a parked motorcycle.

_Jesus, he __**rode**__ here?_ "House!" Wilson ran after him. Caught him before he could swing a leg over the seat. It was a cold night to ride and way too cold to walk. "Let me give you a ride home."

House thought about it for a second. "Sure." He didn't seem to care one way or the other.

Wilson felt immense relief. "Okay. Good. Now, I'm going to go get my coat and keys, and make a quick call, okay? I'll be right back, and I'll drive you home. Deal?"

House listened. Then his eyes opened a little more as he woke up to Wilson's last words. "Who are you calling?"

Wilson said over his shoulder as he walked back up the sidewalk. "Royston wants to see me tonight. I said I'd call him back."

House watched his friend enter his apartment building. Then he pulled out his cell phone and hit a speed-dial. Number One on the program. "It's me. Which hotel?"

House listened, sticking the address in his memory while he watched for Wilson's returning form. "Fine." House agreed. "Call Wilson and cancel."

More words from Royston.

House sobered up in the cold air. He stared at the ground. Everything was frosted. Frozen. Cold damn Christmas month. He hated Christmas. "Yes, I-I'm sorry." House looked at the clear sky, the stars twinkling, their steady light dancing through the atmosphere. "I _said_ I was sorry - what more do you want?"

House listened again. "No, it won't happen again. Yes."

More talk.

"Yes. _Sir_." House articulated with just a hint of anger.

Even more talk from the voice at the other end.

House shook like a leaf from the cold and from so many things. "_What_ do you want me to say? No! No, don't call Wilson again. Please don't. Please don't, _sir!_ Fine. Fine-fine-fine! I fucking said _fine_, didn't I?! As long as you cancel with Wilson, I'll _say_ the goddamn thing!" House grit his teeth, and whispered so no one who might be passing by would hear. "I want you to fuck me hard and beat me sweetly tonight because I've been disobedient." He swallowed so he could say the last part without gagging. "I deserve your merciful and beautiful cock." _You son-of-a-prick-fucking-monster!_

House closed his cellular, climbed aboard his motorcycle and rode away.

-

-

Royston was loving what their little tiff had done for his boyfriend's enthusiasm. House had hooked his legs around his back and was holding on tight as Royston gave it to him again and again, pounding as hard as he could, making House gasp in the pain and the pleasure of it.

"That's more like it, baby. You _want_ me to fuck you like this, don't you? You _love_ this." Now and again Royston slapped House's face as he drove into him, excited, thrilled at House's willingness tonight. This was all new and Royston was riding a rocket-trip to the moon. The combination of fucking and hitting drove him closer and closer to a frenzy of sexual violence. It was his favorite way to come. "Next time I'm going to rape that goddamn hot mouth. You're going to do me so good, baby. You will always serve me like this." He pumped like he was trying to crank-start an engine, his breath squeezing in and out between clenched teeth, his cock an iron hammer causing the sweetest, hardest, fastest, greatest pain in the universe. And all of it for his sweet, pliable, willing Greg who wanted it - who wanted _him_. Who hated him but couldn't say no now. Never no again. _Never_.

"Say yes." Royston whispered in House's ear. "Say you want me to do this to you forever." Royston raised himself on one elbow and slapped House excitedly. "Say yes, Greg. _Say it_!" So much want was there in those fucking blue irises, so much want for _him_ - Royston didn't doubt it for a second. So much desire on fire inside the sweet ass that Greg had turned to him so easily tonight. He'd practically _begged_ to be raped tonight.

"Yes." Greg said quietly.

When House had properly and swiftly obeyed, saying the word, and then groaned under Royston's body and his driving cock, either from pain or pleasure, Royston went crazy and fucked him harder, growling and snarling in his ear, calling him every dirty name in his repertoire. "You fucking wet slut. Spread your legs. Wider bitch! Wider! Yeah, wrap them around me, and take it. Goddamn it - take it. Look at me, slut, or I'll beat you senseless."

Royston loved to see both the agony and the need in his sweet fuck's eyes. Royston bared capped teeth, clamping onto Greg's left shoulder this time and bit down hard, until his teeth passed through the skin and drew blood. This time Greg only whimpered, and that was a sound so perfect Royston almost came right there and then.

He stared at the freshly bleeding bite, loving its possessive mark on his lover's golden skin. He thrust even harder, rocking the bed back and forth on its coasters until House shuddered and came, crying out obediently with the agony and the ecstasy of the amazing physical place Royston had brought him to. House bucked and thrashed beneath him, and Royston himself came inside him at that instant. "I'm making a fucking geyser inside your tight ass. You're going to take a goddamn gallon home in you tonight." He thrust madly until his balls emptied and his cock was too soft to be of further use.

House felt his own spent penis sag, the hollowed sensations of pleasure in his groin and the stinging pain at his shoulder both fading, slowly dying away. He waited until Royston was finished his verbal diatribe, spoken to thoroughly degrade the one he had just violently raped, and had rolled off. The usual routine followed; a shower - Royston first, and afterward he of course leaving first.

Once he was alone, House cleaned himself up, scrubbing away the smell of the man, then crawled back under the covers of the hotel bed. Royston had paid for a whole night, may as well take advantage of it. He didn't want to go home tonight. Wilson might be looking for him there and he couldn't face him again. Wilson was safer without him around.

The sex had been rough and angry on both their parts. If Royston was going to use him, then he would use Royston right back for his own pleasure. House closed his eyes, and in under a minute, had drifted off.

He slept like a baby.

XXX

Part V asap


	5. Chapter 5

**EVEN TRADE**

**Part V & VI**

By GeeLady

Pairing: H/OMC, W/OFC & H/W

Ratings: NC-17 Adult, SLASH, ANGSTY. (What _else_ have you ever got from me??)

Warnings: Non-con, blackmail, mentions of addictions, drugs, self-harm.

Summary: House becomes the object of someone's dangerous obsession, but it's _Wilson's_ freedom that hangs in the balance.

**This Story**: I started writing before I saw episode 6x10, and it acknowledges everything up to and including "Wilson", with the exception of Wilson and House going in together on the loft Cuddy didn't get. In my fic', they are not living together and it continues to deviate from there.

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**JANUARY 17, 2011 - 15:30**

"Doctor Royston?"

"Yes, Doctor Wilson, what can I do for you?" He waved Wilson in with a manicured hand.

Wilson had only been in this office perhaps three times since Royston had taken over the seat of Dean of Medicine. The office was spick and span, much as Royston himself, whose hair was thin but neatly combed across the top of his head in an obvious attempt to disguise its steadily thinning nature. Pale gray eyes absorbed every detail around him though, for this moment in time, his attention was wholly on Wilson. This was nothing like Cuddy's pattern of communication, who might talk to you while she was writing, on the phone or reading reports. Royston presented himself as a man who actually wanted to hear what you had to say.

"I've - well, _we've, _House's team and I that is have debated whether we should bring this to you or not but..."

Royston's ears paid close attention to Wilson's words of concern while he discreetly admired the doctor's dark, good looks. When ever Wilson's eyes shifted elsewhere as they tended to do beneath his own steady, unblinking though friendly scrutiny, Royston made detailed mental notes of Wilson's smooth skin, his deep brown, thoughtful eyes, the frown of kind concern on his supple mouth.

Yes, Doctor Wilson was a good looking man. Royston wondered what he would be like in bed. Alas, the fellow was married and, more than that, was his insurance for keeping Greg under strict control. Greg of the lake blue eyes that obediently took off his clothes and sweetly moaned. Royston felt himself growing thicker at the warm memories of a few nights ago. Greg was a delicious fuck.

But kind Doctor Wilson was very worried indeed about his friend however, and Royston forced his mind back to the physician's urgent concerns.

"It's Doctor House," Wilson was saying, "we're very concerned about him. He's been drinking more...than he used to."

_Much more. _Royston smiled gently, encouragingly.

"And we think he may be overusing a pain killer - a narcotic. Vicodin."

How Wilson tried to temper his disappointment with Greg by soft peddling the truth. "I see." Royston feigned grave concern, leaning back in his chair, as though the news took him by surprise and even aback. "Well..." He said gravely. "...do you believe his performance is being affected? I've noticed that his cure rate has dropped, but it's still impressive. Or do you believe that his actions may be compromising his _patients_? He's not drinking on the _job_ is he?" Royston was pleased with his performance. Excellent that last. Like canned and labeled Administrator.

Wilson nodded. "House is a dedicated physician." A shading of pride carried through on the oncologist's words. "And I don't think he's doing anything to jeopardize his patients, but we think he may be starting to lose control of it; of the drug. And perhaps of his drinking."

Wilson had saved the worst for least said. The drug would not sharply alter House's medical performance, Royston himself knew that as well as this fretting oncologist, but alcohol almost certainly would. Which is why Wilson was trying to minimize its presence in the complicated equation of Gregory House; addict. Wilson, naturally, did not want to see his friend lose his job over his pill and drink problem. Royston lifted his head in a pretend note of comprehension, and put an end to poor Doctor Wilson's suffering. "And you think Doctor House would not be willing to enter rehab. Is that what you're saying?"

Wilson nodded, ashamed of what he was doing to his friend behind his back; bringing the dirty deeds to the boss.

"I see. If this is as bad as you say, I could order him into rehab." He looked forward to the thrust and pull of that conversation. He'd make it tonight. A pre-date date.

"I'm not sure at this stage that would work."

Royston himself nodded. Little Willie knew his friend well. He chewed his pen thoughtfully. "What if I speak to him, Doctor Wilson? If he agrees, fine, if not, then we can discuss drawing up a compulsory amendment to his contract. The reviews are starting again next week. I could explain to Doctor House that his department is being bumped to the head of the list. That may spur him to want to get this under control in time to _pass_ those reviews." Things were becoming far too visible. _I shall have to have a chat with Greg about his social slovenliness._

Wilson nodded. "That might work." He sounded cautiously hopeful. "Thank you Doctor Royston." Wilson stood and shook the hand offered to him. Royston's fingers were hot and sweaty. "Um, you'll tell me what he says?" Wilson wiped his palm down the side of his doctor's coat.

Royston nodded. "Certainly. I'm sure we can find some sort of solution. I would very much hate to lose Doctor House. His services have been exemplary."

Wilson's surprise showed as a twitch to his eyebrows. A tiny upward jerk. "Exemplary?" He asked. "Really?" House? _Exceptional._ Yes. Brilliant. No one could argue that House was insightful as Merlin when it came to medicine - and often people. House was an eccentric delinquent riding the waves of genius with an undertow of nuts. But _exemplary_? That you reserved for a man who not only performs his job very, very well, but does so in a way that garners professional and public pride. Acknowledgment. Recognition - and _that_ means an ass-kisser. House kissed no one's ass.

Smoothly covering over his minor error in word usage - "Well, I admit he is not an easy man with which to deal, but one can't deny his brilliance."

Wilson conceded to that, and nodded. "Yes. Thank you again."

-

-

**JANUARY 17, 18:56**

"You're going into rehab." Were the first words Royston said to him at their next dinner date. Greg was busy biting into a mushroom burger, a culinary choice he would not have tasted for a thousand dollars.

House stopped chewing for a second, speaking through a mouth-full of bread and meat. "What the hell for?" He asked, his remarkably scanty store of tolerance flaring at once. House did not like being told what to do, which made controlling him so much more exciting.

"Because I _said_ so. And because your ill-advised night-time social call to Wilson's apartment has raised his suspicions that you haven't simply turned back to cheap booze and the drug to cope with your pain or your loneliness or any other of your pathetic excuses you use to get regularly wasted, but that there is something more," Royston made little bunny quotes in the air, "'sinister' going on in the background." He sipped imported, room-temperature beer from a chilled glass. "We have to smear that background. Make it invisible again."

"I'm not going into rehab."

The response Royston expected. "Fortunately for you, it won't be actual rehab, it'll be rehab under my personal supervision. They did of course inform me, after all, about your detox incident, and as Dean I'm expected to be fully aware of any and all problems my department heads may be experiencing. So, in addition to Nolan's regularly prescribed medications, I will administer," he made bunny quotes again, "'alternate' analgesics, while in fact you will still be getting hydrocodone."

House considered Royston's words. "How have you been able to slip those prescriptions passed the pharmacist anyway? They keep records you know."

"Of course. But I had my personal physician prescribe them to me. I went in complaining of some mild fibromyalgia - which is true - I do suffer from sore muscles. Most especially of late, because of you."

House hated that Royston's tiny confession gave him the smallest thrill. Royston was a bastard but in bed he made you want it. Sarcastically - "Am I being too _hard_ on you?"

Royston virtually, almost, very-nearly _smiled_. Humor almost escaped his soul. "Hardly. But in a hotter way than most."

House gulped his double bourbon."You're a pig." He looked around at the other diners, bored already with the evening. "So when does this rehabilitation begin, huh?"

"You'll check yourself into the sixth floor tomorrow and be there for two weeks. We'll arrange to do a rapid detox - implemented and properly supervised by me naturally - and then you're free to return to your department, looking as fresh and clean as the proverbial daisy."

"Daisies grow in dirt and get screwed by insects."

Royston regarded him blandly. "The Holiday Inn tonight. In one hour."

Said the horny bee to the Daisy. House sighed, trying to keep his voice neutral while his senses tingled. "Whatever."

-

-

**FEBRUARY 05 - 08:11**

House knocked on Wilson's door and waited.

When Wilson said "come", House entered but instead of taking his seat in the chair or lying on Wilson's comfy couch, he waited by the door.

Wilson was surprised to see his friend but not in an unpleasant way. "You're out??" He didn't mean to make it sound as though House had been in prison, or that he himself was so surprised the doctors up in Rehab' had sprung him.

House nodded, the smallest smile twitched at his mouth. "Yeah. Yesterday. Good behavior. Hard to misbehave when you're strapped down and drugged to the eyeballs."

House did take his seat then. Wilson looked so normal. At home. Comforting. If he was going to go through with this long term "relationship" with Royston, he needed Wilson in his life somewhere. "I just wanted to apologize for being..." House looked at the ceiling, then his cane. "...such an ass. Sorry I tried to kiss you." He wasn't. And he was.

Wilson nodded. "You weren't yourself."

House nodded. "No. 'Guess not." Drunk but not that drunk, House remembered. He knew where he had wanted his lips - and Wilson's.

"Lunch?"

House felt a bit of light-heartedness return. His nighttime activities he could keep separate. Wilson he would keep here, in this room, in the cafeteria, in the labs and hallways. Here, at work, where it was clean and safe and controlled. Where he himself was Doctor House - Diagnostician. It was essential he remain that man. House the doctor, and not "Greg" the noble freak-slut who'd grown to enjoy sexual sadism just a little, all for the good of another.

Greg was way, way over the rainbow now. Best to keep House and Wilson in Kansas. "You buying?"

Them going for lunch? That was them-normal. His friend buying? That was Wilson-normal. He letting Wilson pay for it? That was House-normal. Normal felt good.

"Of course." Wilson said, looking relieved.

House was glad to see it. As long as Wilson was okay and would remain so, this was all worth it. Tit for tat. Quid-pro-quo. Even trade.

-

-

"You're younger friend is very attractive." Royston commented one night after emptying himself hard into House's anus. This night Royston had him lay face-down, a rarer request. Royston's thirst for absolute control dictated he have his "partner" lie face-up so he could see what effect his pumping cock and his unkind hands were doing to him on the _inside_, and not just the surface.

House ignored him, but Royston seemed to be in the mood to talk. "He looks even younger than he is. He's forty-two?" Royston asked aloud.

House knew he wasn't looking for a response. Royston loved to hear himself talk.

"Hardly looks a day over thirty." Royston left off combing his thinning hair, and looked over his shoulder at Greg who was still lying on the rumpled sheets. The room smelled of rut and sweat. "Have you and he ever...?"

Wishing the fucker would just finish getting dressed and leave, House kept his eyes shut, willing sleep to come. But Royston wanted an answer this time, and House didn't want to be taking another love bite to work tomorrow, so he muttered without interest "If we had, you think I would tell _you_?"

Royston huffed. "Denial is just a weak lie. Of course you have. You're in love with him, but there are several relationships and break-ups - several marriages on his part - and get-back-together's between you and him over many years. Your feelings for him had to have come to light during all of that, though it appears to me that he doesn't share them."

House yawned. "Fuck off." He said and rolled over onto his stomach.

Unruffled by the curse Royston straightened his tie and, via the dresser mirror, glanced over to where House lay face down on the bed. Words could not hurt unless you believed them. Words usually did shit to a man as strong in his mind as Gregory House. Mentally strong men were a huge turn-on. Physically compromised men, like his crippled, compliant Greg, got him even harder. The combination was electric.

Admiring the view - "What a delicious ass you have, Greg."

House really ignored him now, and closed his eyes again, uttering what he hoped were his last words for the evening. "I'm trying to sleep."

Royston, however, was not finished. "Your friend has a less tasty posterior, but I wouldn't mind knowing it more intimately."

House cracked one eye. "Fantasizing again?" Getting Wilson into bed was a no-show._ I ought to know. _Besides, Wilson was Royston's insurance that kept House coming back to generic hotel rooms week after week. Royston was too smart to start fucking with that now.

Royston slipped into his suit jacket, the contrast of its charcoal shade bringing out the extreme fairness of his hair and skin. "Jealous, my sweet?" Without a goodbye, Royston left. House's derisive laugh came too late to reach Royston's ears as the door clicked shut behind him.

-

-

**FEBRUARY 05 - 08:44**

"New case." Chase handed House a thin chart.

House fingered its few pages. "How many doctors did this guy go to before he was shoveled my way?"

Chase sat, sipping bitter cafeteria coffee. House had cut down on the in-office beverages and snacks, and Chase wasn't sure if it was money or that House just didn't bother anymore. "_Our_ way, and three. For his complaint of pain in his hands and feet, he was given ibuprofen by one doctor, instructions to lose weight and start walking every day by another, and the third physician told him to masturbate for his pain - he was a psychologist."

"A third-rate one at best." House tossed the chart on the table. "That _never _works." House stretched, scratching his head with both sets of fingers. "Okay. New sets of every useful test those idiots did, and do the CT they failed to do. Go."

That would keep them occupied for more than a day. He was free.

House called Wilson. When Wilson answered - "I have three words for you: pizza, beer and nudity."

"You want to order in and watch porn?"

"Well, I suppose we could just _watch_ the nudity..."

House could hear Wilson flipping through his little black scheduler. House could imagine it crowded with things like: Ballet (Leanne pretended to like it so she could feel sophisticated); Mystery Dinner Theatre (Just inane enough entertainment to keep the little wife happy but not so boring that Wilson might fall asleep and embarrass her); notes like "Brunch with Mom on Sunday", "Wilson's dentist appointment.", or "spa' day." Ah the mundane pursuit of married lifelessness.

"You thinking this for tonight?" Wilson said. "'Cause that's good for me."

A free Friday night? "Where's the little missus?"

"Staying with her mother. They're having a Mother-Daughter weekend."

"Right."

"What do you mean, right?"

"Nothing. Bring light beer and I'll give you an enema." House lowered his voice in sultry seduction. "Bring real beer and I'll give you _two_."

The pizza was duly consumed, the porn viewed - an amateur affair where the men were impossibly muscled, their one-eyed stiffs bobbing around the room between women only slightly less grotesque than Tammy Baker, and where every one of them got layed but no one looked like they were having much fun doing it.

Through-out it all, House rolled his right shoulder now and again, trying to ease an ache.

"Strain?" Probably from the cane.

House nodded. "Yeah. Leg's been bad lately."

Meaning more weight on his cane hand, thus more weight on his shoulder. Except Wilson didn't really believe him. _Bad lately_ had become meaningless rote from the mouth of House. Wilson dragged his attention back to the pitiful porn movie. The steroid-fed gorillas went from woman to woman, the women writhing and moaning even before a cock got near enough to be of any use. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. No doubt the entire thing had been shot in someone's basement.

"House, where did you get this-"

"-You know this night would be going by much more pleasantly if we were having sex."

Blinking browns and two caterpillar brows disapproved. "Would you stop joking about that."

"Since when have I ever joked about sex?"

"To Cuddy, to Chase, to Cameron, to _Foreman_ for crying out loud."

"To you?" House asked, neither his face nor his voice was a tease.

"_Yes_ - to me. _Always_ to me."

"Yeah, but there's a difference."

"Do tell."

"I _love_ you. Remember?" House gulped his beer and made a face, the last third had warmed over. "We had sex. Deny it if you want to but it was great. I loved every minute of it. The next day you got up, showered for an hour to scrub off your shame and threw away my number."

"I _lost_ it." Wilson knew House loved him, he just didn't know _that_ night, jail-bail night. To him it was stress relieving sex. "Anyway, you bailed me out. I figured I owed you. And you never mentioned that night again either."

"You didn't want to _hear_ it. The very next time we met up, the first thing you told me was about the hot filly you were suddenly regularly sleeping with. I was out of the running." House abandoned the tepid beverage. "I missed you. It hurt."

Wilson also had never guessed that House's feelings for him had run that deep so quickly and, as House was making abundantly clear, still did. "You mean you _fell_ in love with me? After knowing me _two days_?"

House stared into the brown depths of the brew. "You think I jump into bed with every good looking guy I meet? I was never a slut." He looked away. The fireplace had suddenly become terribly interesting. "Believe me, it takes a shit load more than opportunity to get me into a man's bed."

Wilson tried to sort out his feelings for House as they had stood then, and now. Both were shifting, the memories blurring, becoming less distinct. The many details of their hours and days together over that first few weeks now took on additional meaning. Touches, words, glances, all plunged to new depths and heights of possibility. "I really had no idea - then, I mean."

"Well, now you know. I love you. Always have, always will."

"You're slurring your s's."

"My tongue is still thirsty. I miss the sex."

Ah - a genuine, factory-made House feeling. In his mind Wilson filled in the rest. _He misses my company, too. _Wilson felt sorry for him. How screwed up this all was.

"I mean," House continued, twisting off another beer cap. "That's not all it was, but it was..." He screwed up bloodshot eyes, "'bout seventy-five percent of it."

"I'm touched."

House nodded. He'd made his confession while almost sober. He was proud of that. Then he'd driven it home while drunk. That might not have been such a stealth move. Now Wilson might say _I love you too_ back which, suddenly House concluded (with all the goings on between him and the horribly named Albert), he had no idea how to presently handle. Or, even worse, Wilson could say nothing in return, and House was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to handle that at all. Not tonight when his best friend and object of his keen desire sat a foot from him, smelling and looking so good.

"Go home, Wilson."

Wilson started, shifting his eyes around as though searching for the third of the last conversation he had obviously missed, because they had gone from an intimate conversation of feelings shared, almost sweet-talk, to _Take your time and get the fuck out. _"What'd I do?"

"I'm tired." House gathered his long legs under him and stood erect enough to stumble to the door where Wilson had put aside his leather shoes. "Here." House tossed them over to Wilson, who had to fumble-catch the second one.

"You're kicking me out?"

"Yup. I wanna' go to bed." Technically. And not in his own apartment.

Wilson stared for a moment, then decided it wasn't worth the argument. House had drank far too much alcohol to still be normal at this time of night. _House_-normal, that is, and he wasn't even close to that. Chalking it up to WTF, Wilson slipped into his shoes and tied the laces. House all but drew him a map from the couch to the door of his apartment.

Wilson managed - "House, I think you ought to go sleep it off."

Before the door slammed in his face.

-

-

**FEBRUARY 05 - 22:00**

Royston answered the door to his apartment to find his lover standing there. Quiet rage swept through him. "What the fuck are you doing at _my_ door?"

House glanced into the apartment hallway. A forgotten six-pack of Wilson's beer (bless his little heart!), had varnished House's buzz with a thick glaze. He was surprised by the apartment's cramped hallway and cheap carpeting. He thought Royston would have wanted his high priced clothing hanging in something with a little more class. "Wilson went home." He offered by way of explanation which was actually no explanation at all. But he didn't care one bit. "I'm bored and horny, and I'm tired of hotels."

Royston hauled House in by his leather sleeve, slammed the door with one hand and roughly pushed House up against the wall with his other. "You are never to come here." He stuck his face to within an inch of House's. _"Never!"_

Royston's breath smelled like chicken and Colgate and House turned his head away from the offensive combination. He was passed catering to Royston's every wish, worrying himself to a frazzle with his threats. He shrugged, cupping Royston's groin with one hand. "Whatsa' matter, boss? Don't you want me tonight?" House smiled a devil's grin when he felt Royston instantly begin to harden under his fingers.

Royston growled. "I'm not one to waste a good hard-on, bitch." He threw House to the hallway floor, tearing at his clothing and slapping his face with ever increasing excitement. They rolled around in frantic ardor of thrashing limbs and quivering cocks until both came.

Slipping on his jacket, House prepared to leave. He knew he had upset Royston's neat little world by coming here tonight. It had felt good. Freeing. Wilson was safe. He himself could live his life, albeit with frequent interruptions of the sexual sadistic kind, but it would still be _his_ life - not Royston's.

Before House could slip away, Royston grabbed his lover's jaw in one claw-like hand, squeezing it hard. "If you ever try to defy me again, I'll give you a mark that will never fade. I've already branded you under your clothes, doll, how would you like a mark on your face?"

"Already got one there. He was a prick-toting prick, too. No - wait - I meant a prick toting a gun." House answered. Royston tightened his grip. His eyes were crazy, and House swallowed hard. Maybe he had pushed his luck enough for one night.

"Get out." Royston said with steely tones.

House looked away and down. He didn't like the look of those cold gray eyes. His own eye caught a pile of mail that Royston had not yet gone through. One the front of one Royston's full name was neatly typed: "Albert P. Royston." House almost laughed. Suddenly those crazy, gray eyes were comic. "Albert?" House said, his lips a mocking twist. "That's your first name - _Albert??"_

Royston snarled and bared his teeth. "Honey, don't you know it's rude to read other people's mail?" He moved to kiss House on the lips, but at the last second he moved to his left and sunk his teeth into House neck, right over the old bullet wound and the scar that had been steadily fading over the years, until it had become hardly more than a melanin deprived white line.

House screamed when he felt Royston's teeth break the surface, going deep, biting down hard. Royston quickly clamped one hand over House's mouth to stifle him as he bit into the bleeding flesh harder.

Finally Royston released him and House slid down the wall to his backside, his right hand clamped over the bleeding wound. He looked up at his so-called lover - breathing hard to try and ease the throbbing pain. "You rotten _fuck!"_

"You love it." Royston countered, wiping the blood from his lips with the back of his hand. "You're having the best sex of your life. A little bite is a small price to pay."

"This one was deep, ass hole. And it hurts like a bitch."

Royston leaned against the opposite wall, crossing his arms, delighted with his work. "You're out of pain because I know you need the Vicodin. You can drink all you want and I don't chastise you for it, and I'm providing amazing, regular orgasms. I don't see what you have to complain about."

"I have beer in my fridge, Royston. As for orgasms, I've got two good fists, and I never _asked_ for the hydrocodone."

"And neither are you refusing it." Royston looked bored. "Go home, Greg." Royston regarded him calmly, his eyes no longer shining with insanity, his manner collected. He was in command of himself once more, and in control of Greg, who had been pushing the boundaries far too much lately. "Friday night. The Motor Motel out on the highway." Royston chuckled at him as Greg tried to get up. Royston helpfully handed him his cane. "Don't be late, sweetness. And if you ever come here again, Wilson's safe little life with wife number four is over."

The bathroom sink was littered with bloody balls of cotton. House cleaned and dressed the fresh wound, taping a square of sterile gauze over the very visible set of teeth marks. Turtleneck sweaters again for a few weeks - that son-of-a-_bitch!_

-

-

**FEBRUARY 06 - 07:15**

The next time Wilson saw House was when he chanced a peek into House's office to find him cat-napping. House had seemed more himself that morning but only by observation. Still, he appeared to be shuffling along in life where, for a while after Mayfield, he had been striding ahead with confidence. Now his forward motion had taken a sharp right turn, slowing down, running into circles smaller and smaller, until he seemed to be not hardly moving at all. Except his manner was a man frantically scanning the ground in front of him in fear of where his limp might lead him.

Wilson crept in and studied House's sleeping face for just a moment. His friend was older, tired looking. He was wearing a turtleneck sweater again, this one a navy blue.

Neither of them were the same men anymore. Water under the bridge. Great gushing oceans of water. But they were both the same in one fundamental way that never subsided - no matter how much time they spent together, they were both lonely.

Wilson sighed. He was in his fourth marriage, and saddened to learn that he still felt alone. House's suggestion of counseling for himself and Leanne had of course never fruited. No point when she spent almost every day either away on her business trips, or at home involved in one of her half dozen hobbies or her endless hours of volunteer work.

Wilson hardly ever saw her anymore, and she didn't seem to mind.

-

-

**FEBRUARY 07 and . . .**

Work days and lunches with Wilson went by, and their friendship was almost back to its usual pitch and pace. Looking back on his break-down, his arrival at Wilson's door begging for some of Wilson's particularly gentle brand of sex and his euphemistically called rehab', House began to wonder how he'd managed to let himself get that out of control. Everything seemed fine now. He felt fine and in control except for his sexual activities which he kept very much to himself and away from the eyes of anyone he knew. He'd come to enjoy the regular sex, if not always Royston's perverted brand of it.

As long as he could maintain his emotional and mental equilibrium, he would take his pills (now including the forbidden Vicodin), enjoy his beer, and clandestinely partake in Royston's particularly _non_-gentle brand of physical gratification. A small price to pay to keep Wilson safe. Since his ill-advised visit to Royston's apartment, the only thing that had upset his thinking over the last week was how long would Royston be satisfied with _him?_ The bastard's warped appetite for an aging cripple was sure to fade, and then what?

If only Royston would have a horrific accident and die. It would end the sex, but it would also end the stress he was living under. Another even trade.

"House?"

Maybe Royston will fall off his balcony, or get eaten by a pack of wild dogs. He'd need to find a new way to occupy his evenings, but he wouldn't have to put up with still-life hotel rooms and Royston's unending monologue that never deviated from his favorite topic - himself. That would also be a plus.

_"House!"_

House looked up from the pen he was twirling between two fingers. Chase was asking him something. _Shit!_ He had let his attention wander. "What?"

"What do you think?" Chase asked, staring at him. They were all staring at him. Right. The case. He and his team were discussing the old man. A fifty-five year-old weird symptoms where his extremities would repeatedly grow cold, then hot, cold, then hot, with complaints of constant pain or numbness in his hands and feet. It was bizarre. You can't have pain _and_ numbness. It had to be a brain tumor screwing with the hypothalamus, but the CT showed nothing. An MRI was in order. "Get him an MRI?"

No one moved. "You already sent Thirteen to do that." Taub calmly reminded him.

"Oh." _Double shit._ "Right. Good." House stared back at Chase as though he had not missed a word the young doctor had spoken. "And?"

Chase spread his hands. "And do you want any other tests? We could scope his femoral artery and see if it's his arterial walls. He could have plaque build-up that's breaking off in small enough pieces that they're getting flushed to his extremities and causing blockages. What do you think?"

House frowned at himself. He couldn't recall anything Chase or the others had said during the last five minutes. "I think have at it." He said, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.

Taub rolled his eyes. Just another day. Chase gathered up the chart. "You okay?" He looked over at house. "You've had pissed-off written on your face all day."

House stood up, too. "Well, you know the old saying. It takes forty-two muscles to frown, but only one hand to bitch-slap Wilson."

Chase took House's deflections in stride and followed Taub out the door to go run their tests.

House gimped to his office and eased his weight down into the chair. He was so tired today, and his shoulder was sore. Too many hours on the cane and not doing his therapy. Today he just didn't give a shit. And it was hot in here, but he couldn't afford to take off the turtleneck. It had only been a week and the bite, though slightly inflamed, was healing up. A bit slower than usual, but then Royston had done a deeper number on him than usual. By now he had a half dozen of the damn dental trophies in various places, most of them well hidden beneath his clothes.

House sighed. He had said no-thanks to lunch with Wilson, claiming fatigue and leg pain, which Wilson bought, since House knew he wasn't looking so well today. After the customary Wilson concern, his friend had reluctantly gone off to eat lunch alone.

How come the little wife never meets her husband for lunch? She was a flighty ding-bat but Wilson seemed attached to her, and they appeared to be relatively happy. Though, as he himself well knew, appearances can be deceiving.

House moved to his comfy chair and laid his head back against the head-rest, closing his eyes. A twenty minute power nap was in order.

"House?"

House was swimming. Something he had not done in many years. It was wonderful to be floating free in the heated water. Suddenly his skin was burning from the heat. Someone had set the temperature gauge to Boil, and his skin was beginning to cook and peel away from the underlying dermis.

"House!"

House opened his eyes, the dream of being cooked alive faded. In seconds it had scattered like dry granules, away on the soft winds of sleep. In the next second, it was lost.

"He's feverish." Someone said in a dull voice. Taub. Good doctor. Smart. Knows enough to admit when he's wrong. _I'm not feverish, so you're wrong. Admit it._

Taub was silent, and then there was a hand on his forehead.

He was awake, he was pretty sure of that. But for some reason not awake enough to open his eyes to see who's hand it was and push it away.

"He's burning up." That was Thirteen's voice. Must be her hand.

House tried to tell her to leave him alone but his tongue had forgotten how to form English words, and he heard its babbling with helpless frustration.

"Get him on the stretcher."

House felt his mind wash over white and his limbs start to thrash of their own will. It was like running in place but with his arms and legs tied to someone else's limbs, and he could not control where they went or what they did.

He was flying now, and running, and it was all too fast. Too many flashes of lights - too bright! The lights hurt. "He's convulsing. _Shit!" _That was Wilson's voice."How long has he been like this?"

"I don't know." Thirteen said.

"Did anyone try speaking to him?" Wilson. Panicked. His friend scared for him. That felt sorta' nice.

"We found him like this. He wasn't talking." Taub's voice.

"We were gone maybe hour." Thirteen.

Another hand on his forehead. Wilson's slim, moisturized fingers. "This is no detox." He said.

Wilson sounded worried, and House felt bad for that, but he was too tired to say anything. Too exhausted to explain it was nothing and if they just let him go back to sleep, everything would be all right.

"Then what?" Thirteen asked.

Wilson sounded scared now. "I don't know."

House let the voices die, and allowed them to fly him where ever they willed.

-

-

He awoke to voices in his ears and hands on his body. He was feeling no pain. Interfering hands rolled up his sweater's sleeves and poked things into the crook of his elbow. Other hands shone a bright light in both of his eyes, and he tried to knock it away.

Wilson fumbled at the collar of the sweater, checking House's pulse while Chase hooked up the heart monitor. Wilson gasped, causing Chase to look. "Holy..." He said.

"Oh my god." Wilson whispered. "What the fuck?"

Chase asked. "Jesus. Is that...is that a _human_ bite mark?"

Wilson gently peeled away the sodden square of gauze that House had put on it at some point. "It's been healing a while but it's definitely infected." Wilson answered. "We should start him on erythromycin and tylmicosin. This could be staphylococci caprae."

"I'll get the bags, but are you sure?" Chase asked. Human mouths were incubators for staph's.

"No, but we need to treat him now." Worried. Puzzled. The voice House often heard just prior to Wilson chewing his ass off. "The infection has gone into the shoulder joint and the next stop is the lymphatic system - we don't have time for a culture."

House wondered who they were talking about. _His_ patient was already having cultures run. Why was Wilson giving orders to _his_ fellowship??

Chase - "I can't believe this."

"Chase." Wilson, his voice hushed as they traded secrets that they refused to share with House. "You didn't see this, okay? For now?"

"You'll have to report this to Royston eventually." Chase's gentle voice of counsel.

"I will." Wilson again. "As Soon as I have some idea of what I need to report."

"Just as long as we're clear. But for now..." Chase's fuzzy white form nodded, moving toward the door. "..see _what_?"

When House's eyes finally focused, it was only Wilson now looking down at him, his sharp nose not two feet from his own. "You ready to tell me what's going on - though I can guess some of it?"

His lips were cracked and dry, and he gestured for water, which Wilson brought him. A tiny paper cup of tepid relief. "There's nothing going on." His voice was cracking, too.

Wilson let out a long sigh, seconds from abandoning his patience. "I saw the bite mark. This is fresh. The infection from it has traveled into your shoulder joint, and probably your _blood_. How could you hide something like this from me?" Wilson was angry, then aghast. "Who in god's name have you been seeing, and since when were you ever into masochism?"

House closed his eyes again. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"It's none of your business."

"When you pass-out on duty, and I find a deep, human bite wound on your neck, it _is_ my business. I'm the only one other than yourself who's business it is. We're supposed to be friends."

House was tired. Everything should go away. Tired. "We are." He answered weakly.

"Who's hurting you? I know a lot about you, House, and I know you're not into this stuff. You were never -" Wilson stopped. He remembered (during their one night together), House as a passionate, considerate lover. Eager, a tad kinky, but never, ever violent. "You're _gentle_ with that sort of thing. This isn't you at all."

"Meet the new me."

"You're not leaving here until I get some answers." Wilson tossed a folded paper gown on the bed. "Change into this. House, unless you cooperate and tell me right now where this bite came from and why, I'm calling the police and they can sort it out."

"They can't arrest me for consensual sex-play."

"But they can make inquiries if I tell them I'm concerned you're being coerced."

House wanted to call Royston and let him deal with Wilson, but he had no idea how Royston might play that out, and House didn't want Wilson any deeper in this than he already unwillingly was. "I'm seeing someone, okay? We get carried away sometimes. It didn't look infected. It didn't feel infected."

"That's because the infection went straight into your bloodstream, it had plenty of places to grow besides in the wound." Wilson tried to look House in the eye, and had to take House's chin in hand to force him to look back. "Someone's...hurting you. You haven't been yourself for months. I just could never put my finger on exactly what had changed. The secrecy, the avoiding me - those alone should have tipped me off that it wasn't anything healthy." He pointed to the gown again. "_Change_, please."

"What I do with my body is my business. And I'll change when you leave."

Wilson shook his head. "Your business? No, not anymore. This.." Wilson gestured with one hand to the partially healed but heavily infected bite wound, "_this_ makes it mine."

"Get out, Wilson. I'm tired. I want to go to sleep."

"No. I'm not going anywhere." Wilson studied his friend's face. House looked defeated and wrung out. "Is this because of me? Are you punishing me for marrying Leanne?" When House turned his head away, Wilson simply continued. "Look - that week she was away, you came over. You were drunk, and you made physical advances. Is this new thing because I rejected you? Did you take up with the first regular sex-freak that came along?"

That hurt. All of it. That Wilson had sent him away, that Wilson was inches from knowing the whole sordid, hateful affair, that his friend was feeling sorry for him, and that Wilson figured the cripple had no better prospects than to let himself be abused by the first person in years to offer regular physical intimacy. "Nice to know you think this is all I'm worth."

"That's not what I meant and you know it, though it sure as hell seems to be precisely what _you_ think."

So much for deflection. House turned his head toward his friend this time. "You want to know if I'm doing this because I want you and can't have you? You want to know if I'm trying to drown my sorrow?"

Wilson gave him his best sympathy eyes. Those damnable sweet, gentle, kind brown, watery balls that melted his defenses and sent his mouth babbling truths all over the place. "Of course I want you, you moron. I love you and I know you know that, so stop playing the ignorant love object. You're just worried what dating the miserable cripple would do to your image around here. You're such a fame-fucker."

Wilson pointed at the gown again, trying not to let House's words of devotion or insult cloud his judgment or his physician's mind. Getting to the bottom of this was more important than how he might feel. His patience was worn to a frazzle. "Change into the damn gown, or I'll do it _for_ you."

"Now who's being abusive?"

Wilson set his jaw. "Change in the bathroom, then. And if I had anything to be worried about, by the way, it would be what my _wife_ thought of me dating the miserable cripple. But just in case you get the idea that you know everything - Leanne _left_ me." He straightened up. Now it was his angry eyes that looked down. "Last week. She felt "confined", she said, with me. She wants to "stretch her wings" or some such new-age crap. You've been so wrapped up in your own world, you missed it."

Using the IV pole as a crutch, House limped to the bathroom and slammed the door. In a few moments, he emerged wearing the paper dress and nothing else. He climbed back in the bed, and Wilson sighed, re-hanging the bag back on the hook, and checking to make sure House's IV line had not been pulled free. "I'm sick of this. When you're ready to talk..." Wilson took up a syringe and before House could protest, piggy-backed a dose of Clonazepam into House's IV line. "...ask the nurse to page me."

House tried to fight the sedative but, in under a minute, the loud, finger-poking world dissolved around him.

-

-

"His blood-work came back." Chase handed the results to Wilson, who flipped it open and read it for himself.

"Staphylococcus caprae." Wilson said. "So that bite wasn't from a pair of chattering gag teeth - someone actually bit him."

"I didn't see any other bruises on his arms or face except for a small mark on his chin. He could have been punched or slapped." Chase said, not voicing the words they were really thinking; that House had got himself into an abusive relationship. Chase raised his eyebrows at Wilson in a "what are we going to do about it?" way.

Wilson closed the file. "I don't know. I've kept him sedated for the last twelve hours, I can't keep that up. We may have no choice but to take this to Royston." _Again_. Wilson had a thought. "You haven't noticed him popping pills?"

Chase shook his head. "If we decide to go to Royston, the police will have to be called."

Wilson understood the implications of that. Then it will become a matter of record, unless House denies everything to them, too, which in case they'd be back at square one. And of course, he'd deny it. "Shit." Wilson sat back, rubbing his eyes. He'd stayed at the hospital over-night, cat-napping on his office couch. "I don't understand how House could let himself get involved with...he's usually so strong minded. I would've thought his home life had educated him enough on - "

Whoops. Wilson was pretty sure House had divulged his history as an abused child to no one else but his best friend. "Um, could you pretend you didn't hear that?"

Chase pressed his lips together. "Hear what?" At his boss's unhappy family history, Chase had already figured. Foreman himself had once insightfully remarked, "Only a parent can do that much damage." Turned out he'd hit the background of abuse on the noggin.

Wilson truly appreciated Chase's discretion. Of all the fellowships over the years, he was the one who seemed to carry, though he hid it well, some genuine affection for House. Maybe because Chase understood him a little, Wilson thought. As a young man, Chase's home-life had been less than ideal. "Thanks for your help with this. I just don't know what to do about it."

"You might not be able to do _anything_ about it." Chase was making motions like he had to go. "Let me know if you need anything else." And left to attend to his other duties, like treat House's current patient who had gotten no better while his attending was unconscious.

Wilson looked at his watch. House ought to be awake now. He arrived at House's room in time to see House pulling on his left sock. He was already dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Away." House didn't look at him. "I signed myself out."

"House goes AMA of course - what's new?"

House pointed to his own chest with his one remaining sock. "_I'm_ a doctor. My advice is just as valid as yours or any of these other idiots."

Wilson snatched the sock out of House's hand. "_Who's_ hurting you?" Wilson put his hands on his hips in his customary stance of profound disapproval, "More specifically, what kind of sick bastard are you sleeping with?"

At House's guarded silence, Wilson explained further. "And yeah, I know it's a man. The bite size, width and depth suggests a male." Wilson explained. "You're obviously having some sort of abusive homosexual relationship."

"You call it abuse, I call it putting from the rough-and-tumble." House tried to snatch his sock back, but Wilson was too fast for him, keeping it out of reach. He could easily out-run his crippled friend and, for now, while House was sans cane, out-maneuver him.

"Give me back my damn sock! This is none of your business." House spat.

Wilson kept the sock well out of reach. "You want to talk about what you said earlier?"

House pushed himself off the bed and started to walk, with one socked and one bare foot, to the door, not bothering to ask about his cane. Wilson got in his way. House stopped. "No, I don't. I was drugged. I was out -of-my mind."

Wilson nodded. "Both times?"

House tried to shove passed, and Wilson clamped his hands on House's forearms to prevent him. "You're not leaving until you talk to me about this." Whereby House tried to shake Wilson's hands off, but he was still a bit dopey from the sedative and was having trouble with balance and muscle coordination. "Let go, Wilson."

House managed to shake one of Wilson's hands off, but Wilson grabbed for any alternate grip, grabbing a fist-full of House's gray tee-shirt, and yanked it toward himself. House didn't obey but the tee-shirt did and was yanked up, exposing House's bare abdomen and chest.

Wilson, his breath ragged from his struggles with his stubborn friend, just gaped at what had been hidden beneath the cotton. "Jesus- oh my god, House, what the fu-?"

House twisted to get out of Wilson's grasp, but Wilson was having none of it. This - _this _had to be explained. Multiple bite marks, some old and difficult to see unless the light caught them just right, others fresher; pink little curved pairs of irregular dots where hard enamel had sunk into soft flesh. Wilson steepled his fingers and placed them against his mouth prayer-style, like he could not accept what he was seeing. He stepped back to better see the marks before House could gather thought enough to pull his tee-shirt back into place. "House, what _is_ this?"

House, tee-shirt in place, tried to scuttle passed Wilson. But Wilson, patience gone, determination hard-wired and there to stay, grabbed House by the shoulders and steered him on his one socked-foot and limping other toward the bathroom. He man-handled House until they were both inside, flipping the dead-lock behind him.

House shook off Wilson's hands and backed up away from any touch, ending up against the wall by the toilet. "You gonna' keep me in here all day? 'Cause you're getting _squat_."

Wilson, his hands shaking at the gruesome discovery, answered as calmly as he could. He wanted to wrap his arms around House and hold him for a week, shatter some helpless furniture, or beat the tar out of whichever cock-sucker had done this. _Something _besides the motionless, mute stand-off he had achieved. "If I have to."

House leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms. "Let this go, Wilson. It's _my_ life."

Wilson shook his head. So many bites. Even the quick glance he had gotten, he had counted three or four - and those were the ones he could see from just a glance. Incredible that House had not contracted an infection prior to this. Incredible that he was allowing another person to do this to him.

"After twenty years of being in each other's faces and fridges, no it isn't." Wilson said. Even a bed shared, one or two nights worth, a long time ago shortly after they'd met. Two lonely, unhappy people who had gotten together, gotten drunk and spent a night or two under the sheets, trying to ease their mutual pain. "You think your life is exclusive from mine?" Wilson asked. If House thought that, then he had slipped even farther away than Wilson had imagined. "You think because I rejected you a few weeks ago, that it means I don't love you?" He whispered. "Sometimes you're more of an idiot than me."

House looked away. Found a spot of yellowed wax on the tiles and kept his eyes trained on it. Kept his control there, way down there, on that hard, remote, discolored spot. He tried to keep the tremble out of his voice, not quite succeeding. "Shut up, Wilson." Failure to keep the secret. Royston would ruin Wilson. His body core, still feverish, was vibrating with emotion, fear, panic - a dozen other sensations and he couldn't control any of them.

"No." Wilson walked to him, right up in front of him. An inch away. "This is over, this secret, fucked-up, what-ever-the-hell it is you've been doing. This ends right now. You're telling me everything."

"No." He shook his head once stiffly, back and forth. "No.." So softly Wilson could hardly hear him. "..I can't." Hung his head as though its weight had become too much for his shoulders. "You need to let this go, Wilson." Eyes still trained on the floor. House was terrified now, Wilson saw. Hopeless. Close to defeat. One small leap to spilling the whole crazy thing. "_Please_ let it go."

Wilson could see the tremble in House's tightly clasped arms. He was hugging them to himself, trying to keep it all in. Everything Wilson did not yet know, was in the room now, ready to be blown open. A cancer, and the knife was in his hand. "No. You can't get rid of me this time. You'll have to kill me to get me to move."

House turned pain-filled eyes to Wilson, and knew that his friend wasn't kidding. He closed them. "I,...I don't want to hurt you."

Strangely Wilson suspected that House was not talking about any physical violence between them. "_Tell_ me." Wilson stepped closer, pressing himself against House, just barely touching, invading his space. "I love you, and I'm not leaving, I'm not _moving_, until you tell me every last thing." Wilson hooked his left calf around House's right one, gently but steadily pulling it toward himself, taking the weight off House's injured thigh, and effectively rendering it impossible for House to move.

The next thing happened almost too quickly for Wilson to react, but House's other leg suddenly wasn't holding him up anymore, and he was sliding, too quickly, down the wall.

Wilson threw his arms around him and eased both of them to the floor. Not easy as House, even in his thinner condition, outweighed him by at least twenty pounds. House had his head in both hands. He slowly drew up his legs until they were bent double, his forehead ending up supported by his knees. House was pulling himself inside, pulling away. He was that little kid again banished to the prickly bushes of his father's yard. Wilson had learned all about that after House had left Mayfield. Nolan had suggested to House that he needed to talk about his abusive past if he wanted to leave it behind once and for all.

Wilson had learned a few other things about House's childhood no one really wishes to ever hear about their best friend. But he hoped the knowledge had helped him understand his friend a little better. "Tell me." Wilson said. "Just tell me," he repeated it softly, like a mantra. "Tell me, House."

Break through with caresses.

"It's okay if you tell me."

Convince by gentle touch. Wilson tucked his chin into House's right shoulder and held on as tightly as he could. Persuasion with affection.

"Just me. Please, House..."

Connect through all those loving years. Because he did love House. He really did love him so much.

Wilson felt House shake his head no, his short bristled hair rustling against his jeans, and take a series of deep breaths. "You..don't..under..stand..." House added, each word escaping as a desperate sigh for Wilson to just leave it, and him, be.

Wilson's knees began to protest the awkward position and, without releasing his hold on his friend, maneuvered each of his legs around one at a time so he could sit on his butt, bending his own long legs double until his shoes came to rest up against the wall. It was less awkward but not comfortable. Settled in again, he could feel the taut strings of House's shoulder muscles under his hands, hear the fear in his words, and smell the salt of fresh tears.

"If I tell y-you anything..." House said in the tiniest voice Wilson had ever heard him utter. "...you'll be gone." House let out a long, shaky sighed, and Wilson felt a shiver at its bleakness. A cold wind on a frozen beach, un-broken by the hint of spring.

House was keeping something truly awful from him, but he was also burying his face in the dip of Wilson's neck. Wilson could feel House swallow, and take another, deeper breath. Enough to choke out - "And then I really will be alone."

Whatever was scaring House, Wilson could imagine how bad it would have to be for House to have broken down enough to add, "I _can't_ lose you." He lifted his head and looked at Wilson directly. Now he was, to all appearances, calm. Or merely closed down once more. He sighed, and Wilson could hardly believe that his persistence and gentle persuasion was now producing its goal. House reached behind him and pulled his tee-shirt over his head.

"Look, if you want to."

Wilson did.

House stared at nothing while Wilson raked his eyes over the awful scars. Five that he could see easily. There were probably more, Wilson reasoned. On his thighs? Inner thighs? Backside? The delicate skin between his hip and his genitals? Wilson wanted to erase them. And kiss them, make them go away. But all he could do was stare sadly.

"Had enough?" House asked. His dirty secret was exposed. He was uncaring. Uninterested in what consequences it might bring. "Will you take me home now?" He asked in a small voice. "I'm tired."

Wilson nodded. "Yes." He said, though he didn't want to get up from the floor. Things were so simple right here. They were so close right now and comfortable and removed from all other worries except what they each were feeling. Wilson feared, once they stood up and left, they might never have this again. "To _my_ place."

XXX

Part VII asap.

*I know this was delayed, but it's almost twice as long as usual. Next update _probably_ after Christmas (or sooner if I can find the time).

MERRY, MERRY, MERRY, MERRY CHRISTMAS!!


	6. Chapter 6

**EVEN TRADE**

**Part VII (or 6)**

By GeeLady

Pairing: H/OMC, W/OFC & H/W

Ratings: NC-17 Adult, SLASH, ANGSTY. (What _else_ have you ever got from me??)

Warnings: Non-con, blackmail, mentions of addictions, drugs, self-harm.

Summary: House becomes the object of someone's dangerous obsession, but it's _Wilson's_ freedom that hangs in the balance.

**This Story**: I started writing before I saw episode 6x10, and it acknowledges everything up to and including "Wilson", with the exception of Wilson and House going in together on the loft Cuddy didn't get. In my fic', they are not living together and it continues to deviate from there.

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House stumbled only once on the way inside.

Wilson lead his limping, skin-bitten friend into his one bedroom apartment where he and Amber had once been happy. Wilson couldn't remember the last time he'd felt that glow of contentment one gets when you at last reach at point in your life where everything is going swimmingly, and every morning you feel good about getting up.

Every alarm for the last year or more, had awakened Wilson to headaches and a nameless, undercurrent of dread. And questions. Would he see House today and, if so, would House be better or worse? When would be the day where he never saw him again? Would he even be told why?

Now Wilson knew it was worse. Much worse in fact than he had imagined House could get.

Wilson felt his friend's fevered weight on his left arm, and lead him to the couch. House made not a sound even when Wilson, touching him more than he'd had any reason to in the previous year, lifted his right leg up on the coffee table, even sliding a flat cushion under his thigh to ease the strain on its outraged nerves.

"You need something to drink." Wilson had not made it a question, but an unarguable fact and excused himself silently to the kitchen, bringing back a tall glass of ice-water. He thrust it at him. "Here. Drink all of it."

House, afraid to say no to anything his terribly angry and disappointed friend asked of him, accepted the glass and forced it down passed a raw throat. He had cried for several minutes in the hospital bathroom, startled at himself and the unaccustomed tears. Yet, at that moment, he felt he had about a month's worth still stored up, ready to burst at any moment, rendering him totally vulnerable to anything Wilson demanded of him. The truth was just one right word way; one gentle enough touch, and he would confess everything. Therefor he said nothing, and numbed himself as best he could.

Damn Wilson for his comforting ways.

Wilson sat down beside him on the couch, far too close. For the purposes of keeping himself together, House should move away, but he was too exhausted to scoot over. Their legs touched, Wilson's hands grabbed House's shaking right one and held onto it. "I've waited long enough, worried sick over you, and now you're going to tell me what I want to know."

House turned his head, staring dully at his friend's aching eyes. "You'll leave me if I do that." He managed to speak the words, but they fell dead of emotion from his lips. God, he was tired of all of this. He just wanted to sleep.

Wilson stood, pulling on his hand, and House obeyed automatically. Truth was, he didn't care what happened to him now. If Wilson wasn't going to be there, what happened to him was scarcely a concern.

"Come on." Wilson lead him to his bedroom, pushed him so he sat on the edge of the bed, and began untying his sneaker laces.

House observed his friends actions like a lobotomized mute. When Wilson moved to peel off House's tee-shirt, tugging on the folds of tee-shirt in his hands, House lifted his arms without resistance. When Wilson motioned for House to stand, he did so without question and swayed as Wilson unbuttoned, unzipped and pulled his jeans and boxers off.

House didn't feel exposed or embarrassed at his friend's hands on him, brushing against his skin, his nails scraping just a little as he worked the jeans down and off because it just didn't matter. House lifted one foot, then the other because Wilson asked him to. Whether he wanted this personal attention or no meant nothing anymore.

Wilson pushed House gently until he sat back down on the mattress. Then Wilson put his hands on him once more, and felt all over, using his eyes and tactile fingers to locate and examine every one of House's old wounds.

Wilson found one after another. House crossed his arms across his chest, huddled over himself; not ashamed of his nakedness, but deeply ashamed of the scars that told Wilson how far he had fallen. How sick he was, how hopeless, how much he secretly loved the man kneeling before him, but unable to say why he would defile himself over him - ever. "Can I go to sleep now?"

Wilson stopped his examination and nodded. "Not yet."

House suddenly missed those warm hands on him and almost started to cry again. But here tears would have too much meaning and he swallowed them back.

Wilson excused himself to the washroom. House heard water running and brushing of teeth. Even in a crisis, Wilson stuck to his compulsive routine of personal hygiene. It was somehow endearing. House glanced dully around the room, spotting a small silver flask of something undoubtedly alcoholic sitting innocently beneath Wilson's beside table. house fumbled for the small comfort, untwisted the cap and swallowed most of its contents.

When Wilson returned from his personal cleanse, he smelled the alcohol on House's breath and guessed immediately where House had obtained the forbidden beverage. He found the now empty flask and shook it. Drops left. Tossing it on the table - "You're not supposed to drink while on your med's." Wilson said, then right away felt stupid for mentioning it. He himself had taken to the sauce a little more than usual since Leanne had left him and, for the time being anyway, booze appeared to be the least of their troubles.

"Come on." Wilson helped him crawl under the sheets, then pulled the thick covers up over him to his neck.

Wilson sat facing the headboard, looking down at his falling apart, disheveled and now drunk friend. "I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you, until you tell me what's happening. That's not a threat, House, it's a promise. You're not going anywhere until you learn to trust me again."

House nodded because he needed to sleep, though it was a lie. He would say nothing. "Okay."

Wilson read him better than he knew House figured he did. "You're lying to me."

"Leave me alone."

"No."

House lay on his side, watching with dull eyes as Wilson stripped off his own clothes down to his boxers, motioned for him to roll over -which House did, then crawled in behind him. He wrapped his arms around House's chest and hung on for dear life. "I said neither of us is going anywhere until you tell me the truth." He sighed into the soft hairs on the back of House's neck. "And I meant it."

House lay for many minutes staring up into the darkness. "Naomi Hesche." He said into the dark, hoping Wilson was already asleep and hadn't heard him.

No such luck. "W-what did you say?"

"I said Naomi Hesche. This is happening because of her. Because of what you did."

Wilson sucked in his breath and held it. God, the mortal fear that settled over the room, sending chills up his back.

Wilson was so silent and still, House wondered if he had somehow left the bed without him knowing.

"But that was so long ago." Wilson whispered.

"Old agonies leave deep scars."

"Who's doing this? Who knows about Naomi?"

House was too exhausted to think about consequences anymore. His future was set, it seemed, in whatever mistakes had followed them both through time. "Royston."

"Royston?" Wilson echoed. "You mean, you and he...he made those sca-? You're seeing _Royston??"_

"I'm _fucking_ Royston, not dating him. I'm eating cock, not canapes."

"And he's using Naomi to control you through me?"

"He's using _you_ to control me. I don't give a damn about her, she's dead. But if I don't keep playing nice by bending over, he'll use what he knows about her and you to ruin you."

"What I did, I did out of conscience."

"Didn't make it legal." House rolled over to face his friend. "You "set her free", to use your words. You were a young, naive, do-gooder doctor who wanted to make everything right for his patients or, in this case, for his mother's sister."

"She was suffering."

"And she begged you until you caved. You put her out of her misery. This wasn't a mercy euthanasia on a terminal patient hours from death, Wilson, this was assisted suicide. She would have lived for years."

"As a twisted lump of withered muscle and wasting mind."

"Yes, but she was still lucid enough to ask her young nephew to kill her." House closed his eyes. It was all in the open now. "And you did. The law tends to frown on that sort of thing."

"So it's just his word?"

"Right. I did all this because Royston said "Or else!". Does he come across as an idiot to you? He's got a recording - and probably a picture of the toothless old widower grinning and waving goodbye. The old guy was senile, but I'll bet he remembered the day his wife was murdered in every detail. Royston'll have dates, times, methods, witnesses present. He's got me by the balls by _your_ balls."

Wilson sat up, shaking his head. House didn't know if it was because of not truly believing what he had just told him, the enormity of the problem itself, or remorse over his ill-conceived action from years ago that had predicated the entire thing. "Why didn't you come to me?"

"Did you hear what I just said? You killed someone. At best you lose your license forever, at worst you spend a decade or more in jail. Either way, it's over - you're gone." _Either way I lose you._

"If you had told me - "

"If I had told you, we'd be right where we are now." House lay back down. Right now he just wanted to sleep. His head was spinning. Probably the booze. "I figured he'd get bored, lose interest in me and eventually leave us both alone."

"He's using you." Wilson looked down at House. "He's...raping you."

House rolled away from him. "It's not rape if its consensual, remember?"

In the shade of the weak lamp, Wilson could see the tiny white scars from numerous bite marks, where Royston's teeth had penetrated House's skin during their, he didn't know how many, instances of copulation. He felt sick.

"We have to confront him."

House sat up again. "No we _don't_. What do you think he'll do? Apologize and go away? He's a psychopath."

"Then what - ?"

"We do just what we've been doing. You keep your secret, and I'll keep mine. You, your practice and your freedom will all be just fine - and so will I."

"You mean you want to _keep_ fucking this guy?"

House lay back down, rolled over and pulled the blankets up hard, wrapping himself in them, a temporary cocoon from it all. "You stay safe, I keep my sex life with a man I loathe. Even trade."

"There's nothing _even_ about it." Wilson snapped.

"Shut up, Wilson."

"No, I won't shut up." He thought about it for a moment. "Are you...enjoying sleeping with him?"

He shrugged. "An orgasm is an orgasm."

Wilson could detect a hint of something that, despite his casual response, wasn't sitting right on his friend's shoulders. "Of course. That's practically a given with men. So you orgasm. Doesn't mean you like everything up to that point." He hoped. House was just doing this because he had to. Right? He wasn't in love with this guy.

House sighed. "I'm tired now."

The lack of any real answer peaked Wilson's suspicions that maybe House had slowly grown attached to their apparently psychotic, sadistic boss. Wilson continued talking, a little quieter, but loudly enough that he knew House could still hear him. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, you know. An orgasm is just a physiological response to stimuli - "

" - thank you Doctor Ruth."

"I mean it. With enough foreplay, Quasimodo could get you off."

"You've eased my mind, Doctor Wilson, how can I ever thank you? Hey! I got it - by you shutting up and letting me sleep."

Wilson stared at House's back, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. It infuriated him that House had let himself be abused for so long because of something _he_ had done. He switched off the lamp, lay down and gathered House into his arms as best he could through the sheets and blankets.

House stiffened when Wilson's arms wrapped around his upper body, holding him tightly. "What'r you doing?"

"I'm letting you sleep."

"I meant alone."

"Tough. It's this or I keep talking."

House gave a great sigh, then said nothing more, and Wilson soon felt his friend relaxing under the physical closeness, a treat neither of them had enjoyed for a long time. Sex, or anything else, with Leanne had ceased weeks before she had packed a bag and left. How long had it been since anyone had touched House - with _love_ and tenderness, and not just a rudely invading penis?

Wilson listened while House's breaths slowed, evening out in the calm rhythms of sleep. "House?" He whispered. When there was no response, Wilson took the opportunity to kiss the side of his friend's face. No scars there at least. He didn't know if House was aware enough to register the feel of lips against his skin, but for a reason he couldn't define, it felt right to do it. Wilson had no idea how to respond to the things House had done, and was still doing; sleeping with Royston to protect him; showing up at his doorstep drunk and begging for sex.

It was incredible. Beyond belief, really. House was sleeping with a man he hated to save the man he said he loved. How do you handle such news graciously? Wilson was deeply disturbed by all of it and, felt rather humbled as well; grateful at such extreme sacrifice. But he had also felt behooved to scold House for it, because it was so, so _wrong_.

It was insane. This was no even trade. House was worth much more than this. Certainly more that Royston and, it seemed to him now, even more than himself. He whispered into House's sleeping, deaf ear - "You're a good friend."

-

-

Wilson didn't glance at the clock when he felt House stiffen, and suddenly leap from the bed, scrambling to the bathroom on as fast a limping leg as he had ever seen. Then he heard retching.

He followed his friend into the bathroom, switching on the light. "Told you, you shouldn't have drank."

House threw up one last time, leaning his forehead on the smooth coolness of the toilet bowl. Sarcastically - "That was useful." He didn't move for a moment, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass and the room to stop spinning wildly.

Wilson helped him to his feet. Sniffed. "You're getting ripe, House. You need a shower." He started the spray and House waited for it to reach an acceptable temperature. Steam rapidly filled the small room. Wilson turned the Cold tap once again. "Don't want you to burn. You've enough scars as it is." He muttered. He reached to help House into the shower but House was staring up at him, frozen on the spot, not moving. "Oh my god..." He said softly.

Instantly worried - "What? What's wrong?" Was there more awful news House had not yet told him?

"She was allergic to water." House said, an odd answer.

"Who - allergic, what are you-?"

"My patient." House rubbed a hand down his face. His mind had failed him. Or his common medical sense, his imagination, his innate brilliance, or creative genius. But whatever had failed, she had died because of it. Because of Royston. Because he had been so busy fucking Royston to protect Wilson, his patient's illness had escaped him. He'd been too distracted to do his job. "I lost that patient because it never occurred to me that she might be allergic to water."

Wilson remembered the middle aged woman who had come in with burn-like lesions. "Prudence? Right?"

House hadn't remembered her name. "I guess." Prudence was dead because he had been too busy thinking about his dick, which had been too busy fucking Royston, and all because his penis was in love with Wilson. How could he string that retarded shit together into any kind of sense but have missed a simple water allergy?

"No one but you would have ever guessed water allergy." Wilson realized he had just made House's point. "You know what I mean. It's so rare, no one would have figured that out."

"The point is I never guess and even if no one else would have, I _should_ have known. That's who I am."

"That's not _all_ who you are."

"Don't patronize me." House tossed the towel aside. Ignoring the shower, he limped to find his clothes and started getting dressed.

"Where are you going?"

"To the hospital. I'm not losing another patient because of Royston. Or you."

"House. Wait. We have to talk about this - what we're going to do. I mean what _are_ we going to do?"

House nodded, zipping up his jeans. "I dunno', but we'll figure it out _after_ my patient is cured." He slipped on his sneakers. "Right now, we're stuck between and rock-hard penis and a hard place. I've got to find something on Royston that's worse than what he has on you."

"I'm helping you."

House snapped his head up./ "No you're not. If he so much as smells suspicion on you, this is already over."

Wilson ran frustrated fingers through his hair. "This can't go on, House. It's - I don't want you sleeping with him anymore."

House blinked. Interesting. "Why not?"

Wilson had to silently ask himself the same thing. It was because House was being injured. It was for that wrong, awful thing. Right. "Because he's hurting you."

"And I'm letting him. Look, for now, I have to." He slipped into his jacket. "We have to keep pretending everything's just fine or nothing will be."

-

-

"Talk to me."

Chase snapped his head up. "Where have you been?"

"Sick." House tossed his jacket on his chair, limped back to the conference room. "Patient. Results, if any. Differential. Now."

Foreman said "MRI was inconclusive."

"And _MRI_ was inconclusive?" House asked. "And who ordered the MRI?"

"I did." Foreman answered. "You were indisposed."

House nodded, leaving it at that. He didn't fancy revealing all to his staff. The fewer who knew or suspected anything, the safer Wilson remained. "So - ideas?" He waited by the whiteboard, marker in hand.

"Pain in the extremities that comes and goes could be a toxin."

"True. Except he's been here for the last week, so any toxin would have already left his body."

"Not if it had been somehow re-introduced."

House nodded. "Sure. What toxin did you have in mind? If you're going to postulate a theory, some actual details would be nice."

Thirteen stared back defiantly. "Food contamination - this is a hospital."

"Which food and which contaminant?" House asked, now peeved. "Would you like to begin testing? Start now, and you'll be done in about, oh, four months, give or take a decade." He glared at them all. "A _real_ idea, please."

Thirteen still stared back, unflapped by her cranky boss. "I've been monitoring his visitors. He always seems worse after his daughter visits."

"Maybe his hates her?" House suggested. "Parents sometimes resent their children." He glanced at Chase. "It's been known to happen." But House relented as no one else had any offerings. "What does the daughter bring when she comes?"

"Chocolates. A cup of Starbucks usually, too."

Wilson walked in and sat down at the table. "Mind if I join you? I'm on a break."

house stared for a moment. Wilson there distracted him, but it felt like a good, healthy distraction. "Sure."

Foreman's eyes flickered back and forth between House and Wilson with suspicion. "Are you checking out his work again?" He asked Wilson.

Wilson shook his head.

"No." House answered for them both. "He's checking out my ass. Can we get back to the patient? Grade school question: What does chocolate and coffee have in common?"

"Caffeine." Wilson said.

"And our patient is experiencing regular bouts of pain in his extremities. This suggests..?" House looked at them all.

"Lack of blood flow. But our patient is getting blood thinners. The caffeine won't make any difference."

House scratched his chin. "True. Caffeine affects pain. And our patient is having pain that comes and goes. Bad pain..."

"What are you thinking?" Wilson asked.

"I'm thinking whatever this is, it's hiding from us. And maybe from him, too. He said he had muscle pain?"

"Yes. But the probe test didn't detect any abnormal levels." Chase said.

"Maybe it's not his muscles that are hurting." House suggested. "Maybe it's something else."

"What else is there?" Thirteen asked. Then - "You're talking skeletal pain. Arthritis? He has no osteo-physiological changes what-so-ever. We MRI-ed him, he's fine."

"He's here." House countered, "so he's not fine. Any rashes, wheals, lesions?" House asked.

"No." Thirteen answered. "I checked him out thoroughly."

Amused - "Bet he enjoyed that." House remarked. "Tell his daughter to stop with the chocolate and coffee treats. Let's see what happens."

-

-

Wilson joined House in his office. "So?" He asked, seating himself in the visitor's chair, and staring across the dusty desk to his friend and colleague. "What are we going to do?"

House shook his head. "I don't know. Lucas found nothing on him."

"He's got a clean history as far as Lucas could learn. The guy seems to have indulged his low-life activities starting with you. No insult intended."

House sighed. "I've got a date with him tonight."

"What? No - you can't. House, _cancel_."

He shook his head once. "Can't do that."

Wilson knew that of course. This was horribly unfair. Extortion. Blackmail. Royston was nothing better than a criminal, and House would be sleeping with him tonight. Taking off his clothes for him, letting him do whatever he wanted; kissing him, biting him, maybe even drawing blood - _fucking_ him. "Play sick. Tell him your patient is critical."

"Which he can easily discover is a lie once he talks to my team." House pointed out reasonably. "Unless you want to divulge our little shared shame with them, too?"

Of course, he didn't. _Goddamn!_

_-_

_-_

House returned to Wilson's apartment early the next morning. "I didn't feel like going home." House said.

Wilson nodded, resisted asking him how his "date" went, since what he and Royston had together was barely in the vicinity of the meaning. Instead, letting House in the door, he settled for - "How are you?"

"Fine." House said. He noticed Wilson's pale, strained expression. "No more bites, if that's what you're worried about."

It sounded like the truth. Wilson stepped aside, closing the door. "I had a thought."

House joined him on the living room couch. Wilson went into the kitchen for a few minutes. House heard a gurgling and Wilson returned carrying two cups. Handing him freshly brewed coffee - "New machine." He explained. "Makes a coffee in about a minute."

House sniffed. It smelled like gourmet. He sipped it. It was. "What's your thought."

"Maybe this isn't the first time Royston's done this to someone."

house nodded. He'd had the same notion once or twice. "sure. He probably has, but how do we find that out? Interview everyone he knows or ever worked with? Even if he has bumped someone before me, that doesn't change a thing. Royston still knows about Naomi. He can still bring you down."

"Where did he work before he came here?"

"Washington - the one where it rains a lot. Some prestigious private hospital in Seattle."

"We could ask Lucas to go there and see what he can dig up on the spot. That might get us something more than a few phone calls."

"He isn't cheap." House said. "The little weasel cost me ten thousand dollars and Cuddy."

"I'll foot the bill for this one, since it's my ass on the line, too." Wilson hated to ask. "When's your next, " he did little bunny quotes in the air, "date"?"

"Not for days. Royston's off on a fund-finding mission to New York."

Wilson was glad to hear it. "I'm sorry I pushed you away."

House screwed up his face, puzzled. "To which of the several times are you referring?"

"That night. At my apartment."

House nodded. "Oh." It was an intellectual acknowledgment.

"I'm trying to apologize."

"No need."

Wilson set his cup down, and turned to House on the couch, facing him. "Look, House, I'm trying to say..."

House stared back with those intense, focused eyes that read every tiny change on his friend's face. House knew him so well. Maybe better than he knew himself. "I'm trying to say,...I never felt ashamed for when,...we were... together, that night - "

" - it was two nights, actually."

"Right. Two nights. I was just confused. I ran because I didn't know how to feel, or respond to you."

"But you only seem to have trouble with that _after_ the orgasms." House wasn't mocking him. "You haven't changed, Wilson. You know how to romance, how to get to the goal that all penises have, but you don't know how to stay with it. You're scared of love with anyone. Julie, Leanne, even me."

"I loved Amber."

"You were with her for four months. That's not even a litmus test."

Wilson knew it was true. "You're right. But I still love you." All these years, they always came back to _them_. They were a couple. He felt comfortable around no one the way he did around House. House never let him forget his faults, but House loved him anyway. Wilson had walked away, and House had accepted him back without even asking for an apology. It was never his friend's penis talking, not even then. Not even all those years ago. "Maybe we can try again."

His coffee cup held his interest for a moment, then House looked at him. "That'd be...good." He said. But when Wilson leaned in closer, House pushed his empty cup against his chest. "But, I don't want to go there until Royston is out of the picture."

Wilson sat back, surprised at even himself how disappointed he felt. "Why not?"

House laughed. An ironic chuckle. "You don't eat Tiramisu after left-over pizza."

A compliment. House didn't want to sully what they might have together with any hint of Royston. Wilson was suddenly very proud to be House's friend.

House took Wilson's fingers in his own, and squeezed them once. "Some things are worth waiting for."

-

-

Wilson joined House on his differential the next morning. He felt a marked need to keep House in his sights. It wasn't rational, especially since Royston was gone for the better part of the week, but he had been so afraid for so long that he was losing his friend, that staying nearby was distinctly comforting.

"You were right. Off the coffee and chocolates, his pain is much worse." Taub reported, glancing at Wilson questioningly.

House didn't miss the look. "Yes, I've asked Wilson to sit in on the differentials because you idiots haven't come up with anything."

Wilson seated himself in the conference room's small desk. He could listen and observe House without being in the way.

House nibbled on the already much abused tip of a pencil. "Doesn't make sense." He drew the pencil from his mouth, and fingered the silvery stain of graphite coating his finger tips. "Unless..." House frowned. "How old is this guy?"

"Forty-two."

"Could be late on-set." House muttered.

Foreman rolled his eyes, raising his voice. "House. Late on-set for what?"

House sniffed. "Just for that, I'm not telling. You four are supposed to be the ones learning something, but here's a hint - give him a _vulgar_ dose of corticosteroids and you'll find out."

"Why?" Thirteen asked.

House pointed to the door with his cane. "Go forth, underling idiots. Inject. Wait, watch, and learn the secrets of your Grand Master."

When his four fellowships had left, Wilson approached the table and sat down. "What do you suspect it is?"

"I'm probably wrong."

"And..."

"I think by feeding him coffee and chocolate, his daughter may have been inadvertently easing her dad's pain, and, unfortunately, delaying the symptom we needed to see to finally understand what this is."

"So she was helping and hurting him at the same time."

House got the point. "Yeah. But she didn't know what the hell else to do."

"So the steroids..?"

"Will tell me what I need to know, if what I know is true."

Wilson glanced out the glass doors to see who might be looking. When no one was, he leaned over and quickly kissed House's lips before House could protest or move aside. "That's for saving my ass." He stood. "Come on, we've got an hour before your team's back. I'll buy you lunch."

House's limping gate fell in beside his friend. "Mmm, I think I smell Tiramisu."

Wilson smiled. "Maybe."

-

-

TBC asap

* Chapter 1 of The Male Man , a new House story, will be posted by Sunday night (I hope)


	7. Chapter 7

**EVEN TRADE**

**Part VIII**

By GeeLady

Pairing: H/OMC, W/OFC & H/W

Ratings: NC-17 Adult, SLASH, ANGSTY. (What _else_ have you ever got from me??)

Warnings: Non-con, blackmail, mentions of addictions, drugs, self-harm.

Summary: House becomes the object of someone's dangerous obsession, but it's _Wilson's_ freedom that hangs in the balance.

**This Story**: I started writing before I saw episode 6x10, and it acknowledges everything up to and including "Wilson", with the exception of Wilson and House going in together on the loft Cuddy didn't get. In my fic', they are not living together and it continues to deviate from there.

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"Corticosteroids eased his pain." Taub reported the next morning. House had walked in at the same moment.

"Good."

Taub poured a coffee. So did House.

Foreman and Chase arrived, overhearing. "Response to steroids suggests autoimmune." Foreman said. "But there's no damage to his major joints."

House sat at the table. "That's 'cause what's wrong isn't in his joints, it's in his spine. We just didn't see it. Ask the dad if he's been through any serious trauma lately, like a car accident or losing his job. If there's nothing, run a leukocyte test for antigen-B27."

"You're thinking Psoriatic Arthritis?" Taub said. "There's no sign of lesions."

House shook his head once. "With Psoriatic Spondyloarthritis, in a very small percentage of cases, the lesions show up later and only sporadically as a B symptom. And the damage to his spine is just beginning; enough to cause pain, not enough to seriously damage it."

Foreman looked grave. "Not yet."

House sipped his coffee. "Run the B27, MRI his spine and look _closely_ this time. There has to be some visible damage by now. But the good news is, this time our patient didn't die. That bad news is, he's going to have chronic pain for the rest of his life and, trust me, that's worse." House tipped his nose to Thirteen and Taub. "Go tell dad the bad news."

-

-

Once House's team had exited, he punched up the internal number for Wilson's office. At that moment Foreman walked in. "Is that about the patient?"

House held his hand over the mouth-piece. In his ear he heard _"Hello? Hello?? House, if this is a prank call,.."_

To Foreman House said - "No."

_"House! Start the heavy breathing and get it over-with, I've a patient due any minute."_

"Psoriatic arthritis. Poor guy." Foreman shook his head.

In House's ear, Wilson warned _"I'm hanging up in five seconds."_

House said into the phone "Five seconds? I would have hung up ten seconds ago."

_"Not everyone is a jerk."_

Foreman said "If you've got the rest of the day free, your clinic hours are way behind. Royston wanted me to remind you. And by _you_ I don't mean Thirteen, Taub or Chase."

"A _love_able jerk." House said into the phone.

"Are you even listening to me?" Foreman asked with some exasperation. "Who are you talking to?"

To Foreman - "What about you? We're almost the same height and weight - we're practically _twins_."

Foreman threw House a long suffering glare. "I'm not doing your clinic hours. I'm a supervisor, not a lacky."

_"Foreman isn't a jerk." _Wilson said into his ear, making House smile a little. "A hundred bucks says you are." This was fun. He hadn't had fun in a good while.

"I can be had, but I'm not cheap. Just reminding you. Royston's back tomorrow." Foreman said over his shoulder and left.

_"I'm hanging up now."_ Wilson said.

"Good, 'cause you're tying up my phone. But before you go, how about lunch?"

Wilson sighed. _"In the cafeteria, sure. It's the only place I can afford to take you anymore."_

-

-

House chose a two seater table next to the window. Cozy without being obvious. Frost-blurred images of winter bushes and empty benches outside.

"Lucas is flying to Seattle this weekend."

House looked down at his hamburger, suddenly losing his appetite. "And Cuddy's okay with it?"

Wilson shrugged. "I didn't ask. Maybe he told her the truth."

"Cuddy can sniff out a lie with a clothes-pin on her nose. So either he told her the truth and she doesn't care that he's flying to Seattle for a reason he's sworn to secrecy about, or he's a better liar than me, and no one lies better than me."

"That's comforting. I can't speak to what Cuddy did or didn't say, but Lucas is aware that he's doing this for you. And before you give me that look - he guessed."

House felt the pang of rejection once again. Losing Cuddy's trust, losing her affection and then losing her friendship had cut deeply. It still hurt. "Well, if he'd been an idiot, I never would have hired him." A move he regretted because it had introduced Lucas into Cuddy's world, but one that had played its part in getting Wilson back. At least it seemed so. "Why did you agree to drug and drag me to my dad's funeral?" He suddenly felt the need to ask. "A few weeks before, you wouldn't even talk to me."

Wilson paused in his chewing of a very delicious vegetable sandwich. "You're asking me this _now_? That was over two years ago."

"There had to be a reason, I mean other than you suddenly realizing that you couldn't help yourself but love me."

Wilson considered it. When House's mother had called him, he had leaped at the chance to wedge himself somewhere into his friend's life again, and the funeral had handed him the perfect opportunity. Do it for House's mother, had been his excuse for himself at the time, and not for House. He could step into the broiling heat again and see if he still wanted to stand in the kitchen. Did he still love House? Or, rather, the question that had occupied his thoughts then, ever since Misses House had called him: had he ever stopped loving House? Was his running away a kind of desperate need to deny it, as House had insisted?

Wilson knew that now, at this point in his life, losing House would be hard. Harder than losing Amber. Funny how one comes to count on the other person always being there, even when one is running away from him. House had always been the one constant in a life filled with loss. Loss sometimes due to circumstances, like Danny's illness, other times due to his own failings and fear of commitment, like with his wives and girlfriends - and Amber; any one he had ever gotten that close to. Like House.

He felt closer to House than anyone else, ever. House drove him nuts, but House also challenged him on a daily basis. House made him look at himself honestly. Wilson had to admit that House was one of the first people he had ever begun to love to a degree beyond friendship - to a deeper more intimate degree. To a level where he didn't really understand it. Feelings he could not easily explain. Wilson couldn't remember a time ever feeling that way about anyone before or since. Amber had come the closest.

He didn't know how to answer House's question. "You paid me four hundred dollars to talk to me for five minutes. You wanted me back and, like an ass, I wouldn't talk to you. So you did what only _you_ would do: you hired a detective to follow me to see if I was okay. I never gave you a choice." Wilson remembered being angry with House that he had hired the detective. _I ought to have been flattered._

"I came back because I realized I needed you, too, even if I didn't know why." He _didn't_ know why. Not even now. He was addicted to him, that's what it was. House was in his blood, like alcohol. "I guess I was lonely." It came to him that he had never apologized to House for walking away after those terrible events. "I shouldn't have walked away. You didn't deserve that."

House had sat and absorbed every word. He nodded once, but his eyes shifted to the table cloth. Look away from the love in Wilson's eyes. When Wilson loved, when he clung, he seemed to do so without explicable reasons. It was also the way Wilson hated. When he ran away, he did so for reasons he couldn't explain to himself.

You never knew which of Wilson's raging emotions was headed your way and when. Sometimes the intensity of Wilson's affections scared him. "Thanks." House looked a little embarrassed. "Sorry I didn't tell you about Royston right away." A consolation. They were even.

Wilson easily accepted the apology. "You were trying to protect me. I get it." And now the subject he didn't want to broach but simply had to. "Royston's back tomorrow."

House nodded. "Yup." Sipped his coffee.

"Does he usually...call you the day he gets back?"

"You mean will he want to _do_ me the day he gets back? The answer is...why do you want to know?"

"I don't like thinking about you and..._him,..._together." Him was spoken as though the word was vulgar.

"If I don't answer, you won't need to think about it."

"Yes, I will."

House sighed. "He's not so bad. I mean as psychopathic, son-of-a-bitch's go, he's less nasty than most."

"How many psychopaths have you actually slept with?"

House ignored that. "Chances are, he won't call until the day after."

Wilson felt a surge of fear and longing sweep across his chest, making it difficult to breath. "Come to my place tonight. I'll leave the phone off the hook, we'll ignore our cell's..."

"If Royston finds out..."

"He won't."

"He'll suspect it, otherwise why would I ignore my cellular?" House pushed his cup away. "He already suspects that you and I are dipping the mattress. If I don't answer, he'll think it for sure."

"I don't care."

"I do." House stood. Time to get back to the patient, and to his one overriding problem: how to get rid of Royston while saving Wilson's ass. Saving lives, saving asses - he ought to be wearing a cape.

"House." Wilson called after him. Royston and House. House and Royston. House on his knees, Royston smiling like the devil. This was unconscionable.

"Gotta' go."

-

-

Royston's mashed his face into the pillow. House hated this man. But he loved the way this man had brought regular sex back into his life. Regular sharing of bodies was better than nothing. House had no illusions that Royston was only using him for his own pleasure, but it had been a long time since House had felt so needed in someone's - anyone's life. To be the center of a man's universe; to be his whole gratification, his warm retreat, the sole cause of his tongue-tying orgasms, was flattering in an admittedly fucked-up way. House bit his lip as Royston grabbed his hips with both hands, lifting him off the mattress just a little more, making his wanton thrusts faster and harder until he shuddered and came inside him. Then the weight was back as Royston collapsed on him, panting. Sweaty. Satisfied. "I missed that, let me tell you."

House said nothing. He'd missed this, too. Only this. Not the man, not his voice or his looks or his words. But being the person the man most looked forward to. The best reason that he came home at all. Royston was a dominance freak, but he was a man who's odd passions and aloof ways set him apart from other human beings. To that much House could relate.

But the difference was Royston cared for nothing but his status, his power, the suit he wore. He even obsessed over the lay of his hair. There was only one thing in the man's screwed up life that contained the power to nudge any of that a micro-inch out of place, and that was House himself. Royston had his vulnerability and House had come to understand that he was it. They were nothing alike.

"Wow." Royston whispered in his ear, popping House's silent muse. "I could grow to love you, Greg, as long as you keep pleasuring me like that. I really could come to love you, I think." He spoke about it as though his love was some kind of coveted reward. As if being loved by his psychopathic, extra specialness was a gift, and House ought to be grateful to even hear the notion.

"Get off." House demanded. He had a few tidy insults he would rather have said, but he didn't feel like taking home another set of teeth marks. At least the sex was good. Sometimes it was even great. Being the center of someone's universe was, in a way, satisfying.

From his discarded jeans on the floor House's cellular trilled for his attention.

"You're supposed to turn your cell-phone off." Royston snapped in his ear. He did not roll off.

House tried to shake the heavy man's body off his sweat-drenched own. "I forgot."

Royston's eyes played over the skin of his lover's upper back, the swell of muscle over the shoulder-blades, and the line of ribs thinly disguised beneath the flesh. Maybe he had simply forgotten. tonight he felt like being magnanimous. "Okay. Maybe you did forget."

Royston crawled off and, before House could stop him, thrust his hand into the pockets of House's jeans, until he located the phone. He opened it, but didn't press the tiny button shaped like an old-fashioned ear piece, he just stared at the call display. "It's Doctor Wilson." He said softly, looking up at House, his tone deadly. Lied to. Betrayed.

House couldn't help but convulsively swallow. "He is a friend of mine." House managed to keep his voice steady. "He is also a regular consult. That means sometimes he calls." He had added some insolence, and that was better.

But Royston wasn't fooled. His ego allowed no terms of compromise, his conscience didn't know of forgiveness. And there was no turning back of punishment prior to penance. "You fucking slut." He snarled. "You've been sleeping with him, haven't you?"

House sat up straighter, swinging his legs to the floor. He needed to get on his feet or this fight was already over before it began. "No, I haven't." Really - the son-of-a-bitch! House knew he was many things, but he wasn't a cheater, not even on this ass hole. "You're just paranoid."

House knew at this juncture, that it was the wrong thing to say, and Royston's face twisted into red fury. He leaped on him. Before House could deflect or take a swing of his own, Royston had got one hand on his bad thigh and one on his throat, and was squeezing both for the win.

House staggered back onto the mattress, eyes tearing at the agony Royston's fingers were driving from his old injury, and desperately trying to get a full breath before he passed out and Royston was free to finish the job. He had never seen this kind of quaking anger from Royston before. The man had exploded from the inside-out, and was biting his own lip to prevent himself from screaming obscenities. It would not due to wake the neighbors during an attempted murder.

House stopped trying to budge the steel trap at his throat and started swinging at Royston's head as hard as he could. A few punches must have landed sufficiently, because the Royston let go of his throat and his thigh at the same time. But the reprieve did not last long, as Royston jumped him again, this time holding him down on the bed by straddling him on his haunches and concentrating on driving his fist into House's face over and over until his own knuckles bled and his bones hurt.

House tried to ward Royston's hard blows off, but the younger man was quick with his fists, and fought like a street-wise punk. Who knew. With every precise strike, Royston's limp penis bobbed around in front of his face. The nest of red hair stunk of sex. House thought he might vomit.

Finally the blows stopped and Royston crawled slowly off, fury spent and fizzing away. He was a firecracker that had been lit and exploded but that, in the end, had done little lasting damage. Royston looked down at his lover. House was unconscious, his face a bloody mess. At least, he hoped there was permanent damage. House was breathing, though a little roughly, the air doing its level best to enter and escape his lungs through his ravaged throat and bloody nostrils. A series of gross whistles and gurgles accompanied the effort.

Royston went to the bathroom and filled a tall glass with ice-cold water. Carrying it back to the bed he threw it into House's face without hesitation. Then he watched from the corner of his eye as House roused himself and struggled to sit up, shaking red water and snot off his beaten face onto the bedspreads. Royston washed the blood from his hands at the bathroom sink. Blood was such a bitch to get off. Lots of hot water and soap. That was the ticket.

He turned, leisurely drying his hands on a towel. House was pulling tissue after tissue from the bedside dispenser with the little flowers on it. He held the whole wad to his nose and blew a gory wrath into it.

House was sitting up and breathing. Good. Royston tossed the towel in the bathtub for the maid. So far, all was good.

House turned his neck, only a little, because it was stiff now, and any movement exacerbated the remnant feeling of choking. "You psycho-_fuck_!"

Royston smiled a little. Energy and mental where-with-all enough to look at him and curse him. Back to normal. A sick day or two and no one would even notice the bruised cheek or finger marks around his neck. Besides, House had several turtle-necks now, in different colors. He'd be back to work in no time. "You'll be fine, cup-cake." Royston dressed himself. "Stay at home a day or two." He said before opening the door to leave. "At _home..." _He emphasized, and looked around. Keys and wallet? Ah! - there they were. Royston gathered up his few personals. "..and take a load off. This was fun." The door closed.

-

-

Wilson answered the steady pounding on his front door with a silent curse. "What!? - "

- his tirade was halted when he saw House standing there, leaning against the door jamb, dabbing at his nose with a blood-stained tissue. He looked like he'd been mugged. "Jesus. What the hell happened?"

House entered the foyer without being invited. This was Wilson's place. No invitation necessary.

Wilson watched him stumble to the nearest living room chair. "And where's your cane?"

House had left it back at the hotel room. Between the pain in his head, the rawness of his throat and the need to make a hurried exit from the hotel before the manager or the police showed up, he'd honestly forgotten it. It had been a hell-of-a-fight and he figured he'd had about four minutes left before someone who had overheard the fight, over-reacted _to_ it and made the call, so in his panic he'd quickly dressed and beat a gimpy trail out of there, leaving his cane behind. Oh well. Plenty of those in his closet at home.

House blew his nose. Much less blood this time. Royston had really done a number on his delicate beak.

Wilson looked down at House with basset-hound eyes, earning him a glare from House, though he quickly dropped it. Frowning appeared to make it worse.

"That really hurts, huh?"

"Yah," he spoke through his plugged nose and the sodden tissue, "nod ev'rybody can wedder a beading on dere 'onker ligge, say, _Taub_." He wondered if it might be broken. As badly as it hurt, it didn't feel broken. "Roysdon 'appened. We 'ad a dis'greemend."

"Disagreement?" Wilson said and padded to the front hall half-bath, soaking a wash cloth in cold water. He handed it to House who gratefully accepted it, gingerly laying it over and against the bridge of his tender schnoz. "Looks to me like Royston was heavily on the disagreement side of it." Wilson said.

House looked up at Wilson with a wicked frown, even though that still hurt. "I wasn'd exacdly in favor of gedding the crap bead oudda' me eidder." House closed his eyes against the stubborn ache in his head and the throbbing in his leg. "Roy'don thiggs you and I are sleepi'g dogedder. He's dissapoinded wid me."

Wilson realized instantly what series of events must have occurred. "You mean...?" House and Royston were in a hotel room together, (Wilson still had trouble picturing that without a surge of jealousy and anger), and Wilson had called House's cell-phone, not more than thirty minutes ago. "Royston saw the call display?"

House blew again. "Bingo."

There was nothing to be done now. Not tonight at least. "What do you want to do?" Tomorrow and the day after.

"I want to end this prick." He didn't sound so stuffed up now. House shook his head a little. That didn't hurt so much now either. "But I don't know how."

"Lucas should be home by now. You want me to call him?"

House nodded, but added "In the morning. I'm beat." He threw Wilson a quick look of warning. "If you try to make a pun out of that, I'll show you my _disappointment_." He slipped his jacket off. "I just need to use the bathroom, then I'm going to go home and sleep." He toed his sneakers off. Wilson liked to keep those scotch-guarded carpets clean.

"Stay here."

House paused in his rise from the comfortable chair.

Wilson added. "I promise I won't make you do anything but sleep. And there's a home-cooked breakfast in the deal."

House bit his swollen lip.

"He's already beaten you up for sleeping with me. May as well make it official."

House looked pleasantly relieved. "Makes sense. Didn't want to ride home anyway."

"Come on, I'll run you a hot bath. You're moving slower than my grandmother."

"Yes, 'em."

xxxxxxxx

TBC asap


	8. Chapter 8

EVEN TRADE

Part IX

By GeeLady

Pairing: H/OMC, W/OFC & H/W

Ratings: NC-17 Adult, SLASH, ANGSTY. (What else have you ever got from me??)

Warnings: Non-con, blackmail, mentions of addictions, drugs, self-harm.

Summary: House becomes the object of someone's dangerous obsession, but it's Wilson's freedom

that hangs in the balance.

This Story: I started writing before I saw episode 6x10, and it acknowledges everything up to and

including "Wilson", with the exception of Wilson and House going in together on the loft Cuddy

didn't get. In my fic', they are not living together and it continues to deviate from there.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was when House stepped his left leg into the passenger seat of Wilson's car, that Lucas

approached them both to discuss what he had uncovered in Seattle.

"I'd like you to meet someone." Lucas said, more to Wilson who was still standing outside the

car, who had seen Lucas approach from the shadows and had waited, with his keys in his hand,

while Lucas spoke.

House had been too busy watching where he put his crippled leg and his left hand to notice Lucas

at all until he had started speaking, because getting into and out of a vehicle with one bad leg

was not a simple thing, though House had gotten the maneuver down to as close to perfection as a

cripple could.

His door still open, House finished seating himself, then looked up at Lucas who was standing on

his side of Wilson's new Alero Sedan. "What's with the cloak and dagger shit? Afraid Cuddy'll see

you talking to me?" House couldn't help but sound a little bitter. "Or are you more worried that

she'll want to?"

Wilson sighed an apology. "Excuse House, it's past his story-time. Where is this person?"

"Better question:" House interjected. "Who is?"

Lucas was used to House's acerbic ways, and ignored the old bitterness. He looked down at House.

"You wanted to me dig something up? I did. Come by Angelinos at nine, and you'll get the sort of

dirt I think you were hoping for."

-

-

Lucas and his friend were already there when Wilson arrived with House in tow. They slid into the

bench opposite them, House on the inside. Wilson felt better when House was shielded from others.

He knew it was purely psychological. He didn't care.

Lucas didn't waste time. "Tell them, Nilu." He prompted the youngish, good looking fellow.

The bar lights reflected off perfect, ochre-colored skin. His man-pretty brown eyes flicked

nervously back and forth between Lucas, the napkin dispenser and the two strangers seated

opposite him. Especially the one with the deep scowl was putting him off. He licked dry lips.

"O-okay."

His speech was halting, and House observed a few other things about him that suggested there was

something more than nervousness here. For now, he let the young man talk unimpeded.

"I met Albert about three years ago. He was the assistant Dean at Northwest Hospital." There were

no fond memories being spoken of here, only a well of pain. "I was a fourth year nurse,

already married to my high school sweetheart. Three kids. Twins first, before we got

hitched, then a little girl after..."

The lines on House's forehead deepened, the fissures between his eyebrows little crevasses of

impatience. "Yeah, yeah, the happy family life - get to the relevant part."

Beneath the booth table, Wilson placed his right hand over House's left knee and gave an

affectionate little squeeze. House turned his head sharply to his left. He sighed and made an

effort to wait while the kid poured out his heart all over the cheap, chipped arborite. The long

fingers of his right hand,though, tapped out a beat of Hurry Up.

The waiter arrived and took drink and food orders. Lucas declined. The kid ordered a beer, as did

Wilson. House ordered a cup of coffee. Wilson thumbed over his shoulder at House. "And he'll take

a cheeseburger and fries."

Startled, House said to the waiter - "No he won't."

Wilson smiled patiently at the young server. "Yes, he

will."

House backed-off, mumbling words about faggy Jewish zevels.

"It was only about a year after I got married that I realized I'd made a huge mistake." Nilu

cleared his throat. "I craved the company of men, and couldn't figure out how to tell my wife

that she was married to a closet-case." Nilu picked at a paper napkin, his restless fingers

tearing it to tiny shreds. "Albert seemed like an answer to a prayer. We'd meet while at work, or

just after. My wife knew I worked late...nursing sshortage at the time, so lots of over-time,

extra sshifts. Albert sseemed like the perfect ssolution."

House cocked his head. "You're slurring your words and the beer hasn't even arrived yet."

Nilu stared across the table directly at House, as though defying him to refute his next words.

"I loved my wife and kids." his slurring became more prominent. "I didn't want to losthe them,

esspss'lly the boys and little Jennie."

House frowned, but he said nothing.

So Nilu shifted his eyes to Wilson. "So I met Albert two times a week usually - sometimes three.

It was rough and raw and...fantastic sex." He said. Perhaps the one fond memory among them all.

"At first anyway." Nilu stared at Wilson. A more accepting, kinder face than the other one. "Then

he started to get a little too rough, demanding. Wanted me to do things, say things, let him do

things to me." Nilu's voice dropped to almost a whisper. "Some really awful, fucked-up shit."

Drinks came and the tight-panted waiter with the Woody Woodpecker haircut placed a tray of

glasses on the table. Nilu sucked back a good portion of his beer and wiped his mouth with the

torn bits of his napkin. House handed him a fresh one. "Here. You'll need a repla_th_ement."

Nilu addressed Wilson once more. "Sso I tried to break it off. Albert threatened to tell my wife

what I'd been up to." Nilu wore his dark straight hair unfashionably long, in a shaggy,

unflattering cut. Twenty years out-of-date.

"You broke it off." House said, as though he knew it for certain. "Didn't you?" Not impatient,

but complete comprehension. "Albert didn't like that one bit, did he?"

"No, so I got back together with him. A few months later, when I learned that he'd landed the job

out here, I was ecstatic. I figured all I had to do was keep my mouth shut for a couple more

months, and I'd be in the clear. And my family'd be safe." Nilu looked like he was about to cry.

"Just before he left, he told her anyway."

With some effort, Nilu didn't bawl, but he slugged back the rest of his beer.

House's close scrutiny was unnerving and Nilu looked away.

House ignored the young man's discomfort and observed him more, and had listened to his every

word very carefully during the entire monologue. "That's not all that happened is it?"

Nilu watched House nervously. "What do y-you mean?"

"You're slurring. You're only - what? - twenty-four? But you wear your hair in a decidedly

unattractive style."

Just when Wilson was about to ask House what the hell the kids' hair had to do with anything,

House reached across the table and pushed the left side of the mop of the kid's hair up out of

the way. There was a small scar above his left ear, and some tiny marks - scars, like the end of

a white-hot needle had been repeatedly poked into his skin. "Slurred speech." House said.

"Entry-wound scar." House sat back. "You tried to shoot yourself and bungled it."

Nilu smoothed his hair down again to cover the scars. "I wass upsthet." He said quietly.

Wilson kept one eye on Nilu while casting worried glances to House. House was staring across the

table at the young man, his face blank. Then "So what happened with the wife?"

Wilson suddenly suspected what House suspected.

Nilu swallowed convulsively. "She sent the kids to her sisters and took an overdose."

"And she's dead." House finished. Nilu's face left no doubt that he had arrived at the correct

conclusion.

Nilu said to Lucas. "Is that it? Because I'd like to go now."

Wilson urged him, "Please, Nilu, wait. House," He jerked his head to his right. "my friend,

Greg..." Wilson said with a wary glance to where House sat, eerily silent. "he's having a problem

with Alb - with Royston, too."

"Shut-up, Wilson."

Wilson ignored him. "If we're going to get this guy, we need to do it together, somehow."

The waiter brought the food and, recognizing what were clearly the signs of a verbal argument

that was about to get louder, quickly disappeared again.

Ignoring the meal Wilson had insisted on ordering for him, House said, louder this time. "I said

shut-up."

"Royston shouldn't get away with this - what he did to you or what he's doing to-"

House slammed his hand down hard on the table. "Shut-UP!" House yelled, drawing the attention of

the few patrons in the pub over to their table, including that of the bar-tender, their waiter

and the beefy working men sitting at the bar stools.

House shoved against Wilson so he would move. Wilson thought to protest, but he saw the shut-in

angry look on House's face and knew he couldn't push House any further. House wanted to bring

Royston down, too, he was just embarrassed of the why's, and his own role in it. And, Wilson

suspected, maybe it was because Nilu had made what a low-down, dirty prick Royston really was

perfectly clear. House couldn't fool himself anymore into believing the guy wasn't so bad, at

least as psychopaths go.

Wilson laid three twenties down on the table. "Nilu. Please stay in town for a few days. I'll pay

for a hotel." To Lucas he said. "Lunch is on me. Give me a run down on your expenses and the

extra plane tickets and whatever. I'll cut you a check tomorrow."

Nilu nodded up at him, and Lucas pocketed the lunch money, leaving enough on the counter to cover

the bill plus tip. "Sure."

Wilson walked away from the table, feeling nauseous. House was waiting for him beside the car,

legs crossed, scowling at his cane handle. He looked up sheepishly. It was an expression Wilson

saw rarely, but one he had learned to savor. So rarely had House ever apologized to anyone for

anything. But ever since returning from Mayfield, ever since his break-down, it was a look that

tickled Wilson's heart in a good way. House with a conscience, House with remorse, House with the

desire to get well...it was almost as good as watching House laugh.

"Sorry." House muttered.

Wilson nodded, and unlocked the door for him. They climbed in. Wilson kept his eyes on the road

and House rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window, saying nothing all the way

home.

When they entered House's apartment, Wilson tried the lights and was pleased to find them

working. House hadn't been neglecting to pay his bills at least. Wilson noted that he had

neglected to clean, though, as he took in the discarded clothing laying across the couch and

chair, the empty food containers on the coffee table and the thick coating of dust on every

surface. "Did you fire your cleaning lady?"

House sat down on his easy chair. "Never had a cleaning lady."

Wilson nodded. Right. Money had been tight for House this last while. But surely it was loosening

a bit now? "I'll get one in for you."

House nodded, only vaguely aware, Wilson noticed, of what was being said to him.

Wilson hung his jacket on the coat rack and sat on the couch, shoving a pile of dirty clothes out

of the way in the process. "What are we going to do?" He asked. It had to be discussed.

House just shook his head, but it was difficult to tell what he was negating. It didn't look like

he was paying any attention to anything except his own thoughts.

The phone rang, and to Wilson's astonishment, it made House jump as though he'd just heard his

father's ghost. He didn't move to answer it. He simply stared at its noisy persistence while it

sat on its charger on the desk by the front door.

It occurred to Wilson just why House wasn't jumping up to answer it. It was probably Royston.

Evidently House had been thinking along similar lines, because he said "Jesus..." A painfully

strained whisper. A thin wedge of ugliness forced out between clenched incisors. "I don't want to

go tonight."

Wilson felt his stomach sink and his skin crawl. He didn't want him to go either. But what to do.

House looked terrible. He sat with his head in one hand, rubbing his temples, his other fingers

clawed into the pleather of his easy chair. He was going to leave little fingernail tears in the

expensive fabric.

Wilson snatched the phone form its hook before Royston hung up on the other end. Wilson steeled

himself to lie and lie well. He was capable of it, if pushed far enough, and Royston had for sure

given him a violent enough shove in the right direction. He steeled himself to render the

performance of the year. "Hello?" He had sounded respectably rushed - worried. Not bad.

There was a pause at the other end. _"Doctor Wilson?" _Royston just managed not to sound furious at

hearing Wilson's voice instead of Greg's.

__

I'm a better actor than you, ass hole.

little surprised. It said: How odd, the Dean is calling here at night. Again.

__

"Where is Doctor House?"

Interesting. Not, _"May I speak to Doctor House?" _which would be the more polite, and normal,

first inquiry, but _"Where is he?" _Possessiveness. Territoriality coupled with a not-so-subtle

underlying question: "Why are you there?"

"You haven't heard?" A bit taken aback at the Dean's ignorance, with a small flavor of scold

thrown in for good measure. Wilson was pleased with himself. "House has food poisoning."

Wilson listened to the expected need for details - the concern of a good Dean for his employee.

Wilson wanted to shoot him.

"Of course the hospital cafeteria."

Royston rhetoric followed, and Wilson answered with some firm suggestion for discipline to those

involved. "Well, it looks like they haven't been following antiseptic protocols as well as they

should be. Doctor House is puking up a lung. He won't be in tomorrow, or probably the day after

that."

Wilson could feel the smoldering anger of the other man. When Royston spoke next, though, he did

sound almost genuine, and very nearly slightly concerned. _"I see. He'll be all right?"_

Wilson said. "Don't worry, I've taken a couple of personal days. I was going to spend it with my

parents, but it looks like House is pretty sick, so I'll be staying here." Take that, you goddamn

blackmailer! Spend the next couple of days wondering where House's lips are going to be, or who's

lips are going to be on him!

"Goodbye, Doctor Royston." Wilson put the phone down and turned to House. "You're in the clear

for the next forty-eight hours."

House looked up at him, nodding. He did appear ill. Sick with relief. Wilson wanted to ease that

suffering and approached him - rather too quickly - and took his left arm in his right hand -

rather too forcefully. House pulled it away with all the might he had left and shouted "Get off

me!" Wilson backed off a good four or five feet.

House was red with fury - instantly! And stared defiantly at Wilson with such hatred. Then his

face just seemed to collapse in upon itself, relaxing and returning to more-or-less normal.

Wilson understood that House really was ill. In body. In spirit.

House scrambled from the chair, and gimped away from him down the hall without his cane, using

the walls for support, all the while snarling back over his shoulder. "Always grabbing, pawing at

me - _taking_. Hands always taking whatever the _hell_ you want!"

House turned and yelled at him. "Keep your fucking paws _off_ me unless I say you can touch me."

House slammed one palm against the wall, once again and again for every other of his next words.

"Unless I _tell_ you its okay, don't _ever_ touch me again."

Wilson was not the one House was yelling at. He was not the one whose dirty fingers House didn't

ever want on him again. Wilson knew that clearly enough. But he also knew that House needed help

right now. He needed not only words, but proper, gentle, loving touch. Just not Royston's,

where-in there dwelled no love what-so-ever. Cold, frozen digits that caused freezer-burn of his

friend's soul. House was damn near hypothermic with Royston's brand of affection.

At a small distance, Wilson followed him into the bedroom. "House..."

House was sitting on the edge of the bed. He was leaning over, his elbows resting on jutting

knee-bones, his hands clasped together in a death grip. "Fuck off." He whispered. "Please fuck

off..."

The please was what made Wilson know for sure that House didn't mean it. No way was he leaving

now. Instead he sat down next to him, and wrapped his arms around House's unresponsive, tight

shoulders. Wilson resisted the urge to rock him back and forth, but he did turn his head enough

so he could rest his mouth against the scarred flesh of his friend's shoulder. "We can't let that

bastard near you again."

But that didn't appear to be what was bothering House the most. "It doesn't matter what we do,

Royston'll spill. He's going to ruin you anyway, the way he ruined that kid."

Wilson remembered the kid's pinched, deeply unhappy face. Inside that poor kid a hole resided

where a person used to be. "I won't let him."

House sighed. Shuddered, almost a convulsive twitching. "There's isn't shit you can do about it.

We're fucked."

"Royston risks exposing himself if he says anything. He could lose his Administration, get

charged, go to jail. He's not that stupid."

"He could do it anonymously."

With a sickening realization, Wilson knew House was right. Royston didn't have to open his mouth.

All he had to do was email the right people from an Internet cafe or something. Royston had

plausible deniability on his side.

On their side was only the bare naked facts of Wilson's assisted suicide from so long ago, now

about risen from the dead to accuse him. What did they have to disprove it? Absolutely nothing.

He had been so young and determined to do good. To cure, to help, to save, to comfort. And the

gullibility to agree to the stupidest act he had ever done. Ethically, if not morally.

Wilson shook his head. Enough. He didn't want to think about it any more tonight. "Come on." He

helped House slip out of his jacket and shirt, being careful not to touch him too much, and

didn't even consider reaching for the zipper of his jeans. "You need some sleep, and me too."

Wilson made House lie down and House did so without protest, letting Wilson pull a quilt up over

them both. He even allowed Wilson to wrap his arms around him from behind and spoon his legs and

pelvis up against his back and buttocks. Still, House didn't move or say a word.

Affection, right and proper, supported by years of active love. They had both needed this. Wilson

settled in for the night and listened as House's breathing slowed.

Tomorrow they would decide what to do.

XXXXX

TBC asap

"Doctor Royston?" Wilson made his own tone come out a 


	9. Chapter 9

**EVEN TRADE**

**Part X**

By GeeLady

Pairing: H/OMC, W/OFC & H/W

Ratings: NC-17 Adult, SLASH, ANGSTY. (What _else_ have you ever got from me??)

Warnings: Non-con, blackmail, mentions of addictions, drugs, self-harm.

Summary: House becomes the object of someone's dangerous obsession, but it's _Wilson's_ freedom that hangs in the balance.

**This Story**: I started writing before I saw episode 6x10, and it acknowledges everything up to and including "Wilson", with the exception of Wilson and House going in together on the loft Cuddy didn't get. In my fic', they are not living together and it continues to deviate from there.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

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"I need you to tell me what he did to you." Was the first question Wilson had for him when he woke up hours later.

House didn't roll over or move. Damned if he knew how Wilson had known he was awake. "Do you have an eye on the back of your head?"

"You always wake up in the middle of the night. My body's tuned to it."

"You already know."

"I want all of it."

"Why? So you can learn how fucked up I really am? So you can stock-pile reasons to leave me behind?"

Wilson caught his breath. He had no intention of leaving House, or ending what they had. So far they'd shared a bed for several nights. Not a thick foundation upon which to base an intimate relationship, but the twenty years of friendship prior to that was. So, eventually, they would have sex. "Why does your mind automatically go to the worst case scenario?"

"Because you walked away before, and I was in rougher shape than I am now. Only then I tried to do the noble thing; I tried to save your girlfriend. So why now, when I'm sleeping with the enemy, are you so anxious to hang around?"

"Because,..." Wilson had avoided it until now. House would eventually ask the reason why Wilson wanted to try a relationship with him. House had to have good, non-sentimental reasons to be loved. "Because we fit together cosmically." Stupid. "I mean it always comes back to us, doesn't it? Why not just keep it that way? And I apologized for leaving before."

House was quiet. "What do you want to know."

Wilson licked his lips. House was about to open up to him and he had no idea how he was going to react to what House was about to tell him. _Don't blubber. Don't blame. Don't say anything stupid. _"Did he hurt you?"

"Yes."

As simple as that. "How did he hurt you?"

"What do you think? He raped me, beat on me a few times - you saw the bite marks, can't you guess the rest of it?"

"I guess I was hoping it wasn't as bad as I imagined. You're never going near him again."

House sat up, suddenly, like he needed to jump out of his skin. "Why are we talking about this again? When we get Royston, then it's safe for me to be..."

"-Safe?"

"With _you_ exclusively." House slipped on his jacket that he had abandoned to the dresser top short hours ago.

Wilson sat up, too. It was the middle of the night. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to go pay Lucas a visit and see if we can't get this kid on our side before Royston catches on that there's something to catch on to."

Wilson followed him to the door, but didn't protest the sudden midnight trip to Cuddy's house. So she would be irritated, puzzled, curious. House would spin a tale worthy of a man spurned.

-

-

Lucas answered the door on faded green pajama bottoms and a two day shadow. After staring at House for a few seconds, he recovered quickly, and turned to pad to the living room, leaving the door open so House could follow of his own accord.

Lucas plopped in an easy chair. House recognized it as one from Cuddy's old house, before she and Lucas decided to cram themselves and an eighteen month-old in to his inadequate two bedroom apartment. "What's up House?" Lucas nose for detecting told him, whatever this was, was new. Newer than even bringing the kid back from the west coast.

House perched on the couch arm. "How scared is that kid?"

Lucas picked lint off his pajama leg. "Pretty scared. And screwed up. He's on anti-depressants and a pharmacy of other shit."

"Too scared to get back at Royston for sticking it to his entire life?"

Lucas nodded slowly, trying to convince himself that such might not be the case. "No-o, I wouldn't say that scared. What did you have in mind? Besides confronting Royston, I mean, and hoping like hell he falls for the bluff you're about to tell me."

"No bluff. We get that kid on tape. We get him to get his wife on tape-"

"Mmm, the wife isn't especially inclined to helping out her cheating ex. I tried that already. An extra two hundred, by the way. I had to buy a new digital recorder."

"I'll make sure Wilson sends you a check." House tapped his cane on the floor. "There has to be a way."

"Secretly tape Royston? Get him to confess?"

"He's not that stupid."

Lucas pursed his lips doubtfully. "How do you know if you've never - "

"-he makes me strip off my clothes, that's how. No where to hide a recorder that doesn't only hurt a lot, but muffles the sound."

"Ah." Lucas tried not to let images of House and Royston sweating and groaning on stained hotel sheets burn so deeply into his brain that they upset the rest of his good night sleep. "New hotel every time?"

House nodded.

"Maybe you could pay him off." It was a lame, and usually pointless gesture. Most psychopaths don't do what they do because it was lucrative. Unless their psycho-pathology was money itself.

House shook his head silently. "What hotel is that kid staying in? And the room?"

Lucas fetched him a empty envelope from the living room trash-basket, and a pen. "Here." He recited the information and House scribbled it down.

"Thanks."

Lucas saw his old sort-of-pal to the door. "Good luck."

House said a one-two goodbye and Lucas shut the door. He returned to bed, easing himself under the covers.

But Lisa was a light sleeper. "Who was that?"

"The paper-boy."

"It's one AM."

"He had a lot of papers."

"Lucas...Five, four, three, two-"

"-fine, fine. It was House."

Cuddy sat up. "House? What was he doing here at this hour?"

"You're not his boss anymore, you shouldn't have to care why. You should go back under the covers and get your beauty sleep - not that you really need it, hot-stuff."

"Don't try to flatter your way out of this conversation. Why was House in my house in the middle of the night? If he was here, he was here to see you, which means he's up to something, which means _you're_ up to something."

Lucas was utterly unflappable when it came to Lisa's stern voice. "that's where you're wrong. I'm not up to anything, but I am up to helping House get up to whatever he's getting up to."

"You're being cryptic."

Lucas sighed. "I was sworn not to tell."

"This isn't high school."

"Sorry. P.I's honor." He leaned over to her. "But now that we're both up, how about a little -?"

"-forget it."

-

-

House slipped passed the night manager without any trouble. It was barely a three star hotel. Two-point-five at best. Two-point-five's didn't pay anyone enough money to take their job seriously.

House took the old and slow elevator to the seventh floor, located room number 42 and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, harder this time. nothing.

Maybe the kid had taken an early flight home. House tried to the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. He pushed his way inside. Everything was dark and he could barely make out the large heavy form of a bed, a table in one corner, a chair. And, weirdly, a long coat rack or something in the middle of the floor.

Fumbling for a light switch on the wall, he toggled it on and was educated without warning that the coat rack was not a coat rack. It was the kid, Nilu, hanging by the neck from the ceiling fan. He had strung together a couple of neck ties, and they had been sufficient to do the job.

House swallowed his first reaction of revulsion and horror, and let his physician's training step further into the room, having presence of mind enough to close the door after him. He didn't need to find a pulse or check the kid's respirations to know that he was dead as a door nail. The pallor of his skin told him that. Face red, petechiae in the whites of his slightly bulging eyes, and deep bruising around his throat where the tie had choked off his airway, suffocating him in minutes.

As ways to meet your maker went, it was one of the more unpleasant. House put his hands in his pockets and stared up at his ticket out of Royston's greedy, slimy clutches. "_Fuck."_

House picked up the phone and placed the tip of his right index finger on the necessary buttons. All he had to do was push 911 and explain. But then what else, beyond finding a corpse hanging in a hotel room that he by rights had no business being in, might he have to explain after_ that _explanation? At what point would the policeman's questions turn to _"Who are you? How did you know the deceased? Why were you visiting him in the middle of the night? Is this the __**first**__ time you've ever been to this hotel? What was the nature of your relationship?" _Then_ "We'll need you to come down to the station and answer some further questions. Plus we'll need you to fill out a witness statement." _

And things would only get worse after that.

House put the phone down. Should he call Lucas? If so, only on his cell for now. And what would Lucas advise? Probably _"It's a suicide. You didn't kill him. Go to the police, House." _Lucas didn't hate him, but House wagered he wasn't interested in screwing up his good thing with Cuddy by getting himself involved any further in House-brand problems. Smart boy.

Wilson would gasp and feel bad for the kid, then pick up the phone and call the police. _"This is over. I'm going to turn myself in and take my punishment. I've had enough seeing this slowly kill you."_

Yeah. Pretty much Wilson style.

House took up his cane and then, feeling like a criminal, took some tissues from the bathroom, making certain not to touch anything but the paper roll, wiped his fingerprints off of the telephone. He knew he had not touched anything else in the room but the door knob, inside and out. So House wiped those too, inside and out, letting the door swing shut on its own. Before walking away, he turned the Make Up Room sign over to Do Not Disturb.

House slipped out of the hotel without so much as another's glance in his direction.

Thank god for cheap hotel salaries. The night manager didn't lift his head once from his science fiction novel.

-

-

House rode around on his Honda for the next forty minutes, trying to decide where was the best place for him to go at this time of night under these circumstances.

There was only one person he could think of that fit the bill.

Royston answered the fearless rap on his two-thirty AM door. He stared for a moment. "Greg?" He was surprised to see him. "Doctor Wilson said you were sick."

"I am." I'm _here,_ aren't I?

Royston, not displeased at his visit, never-the-less liked the know reasons for all things Greg. "He said you were very sick. Too sick to go out."

"I missed you." House intoned. A crow's squawk would have sounded more convincing.

Even Royston chuckled a bit. "Of _course_ you did."

House looked over at him, challenging him a little with narrowed eyes. "You want me to leave?" Truthfully, his heart was in it for one final, sticky hurrah.

Royston, in a rare good mood, did not rise to the bait of his lover's dangling meaning. He looked forward to making other dangling things rise. "Ha ha, not at all."

"Oh my god! _fuck_, baby, that's _so_ good." Royston moaned and rolled his own pair as House swallowed him and sucked for all damnation. "You suck me so fine, Greg. I fucking love your mouth."

Royston's sex-chat was getting boring. House sped up his technique, changing the angle of his head, tilting it, so he could get Royston's greedy cock as deeply as he could into his throat without choking. when he knew Royston was too close to the edge to call it off, House let the appendage slid out, and finished him off with a hand job, making certain to wipe up most of the milky fluid with a couple of clean tissues. For a change, none of it got on his own skin or in his hair.

Royston panted, coming down from his coming. "How-how come you finished me off with your fist?"

House coughed. "Sorry. 'Guess the stomach isn't as back to normal as I though it was." House looked up at Royston, who sat up and looked down at his lover still on his knees before him. House did his best impression of regret. "It won't happen again."

Royston, somehow goddamn how, actually summoned up a moment of sympathy for his ill cock-sucker. "Don't worry about it, I'm sure it won't." Then he damn near toppled House from his good sense by leaning over and kissing him on the lips. "What was that for?" House asked, honestly surprised.

"For being so sexy for me. for sucking my cock when I tell you to." Royston ran a gentle thumb over House's cheek. "I'm very fond of you, Greg. I doubt you believe that though."

Shit loads of doubt, House thought but wisely said nothing.

Undisturbed by his lover's lack of acknowledgment, Royston rose and entered the bathroom for his body, - if not soul - cleansing shower.

House looked at the closed door for a moment, feeling an out-of-place, just-off-the-mark sense of loss. He said under his breath - "_Now_ you turn into a marginally nicer guy." Stuffing the tissues in to his pocket, he watched the bathroom door to make sure it did not open again. When he heard the shower curtain being pulled back, the water come on and the unmistakable sounds of a body beneath the hot spray, scrubbing away a day's layer of filth, only then did he limp on his cane to the hotel room door.

This time _he_ would leave first. "See ya' around."

-

-

"Where the hell have you been?" Wilson had the appearance of a man who had spent the previous night pacing in his work shoes.

House tossed his keys on the desk by his front door. He shed his jacket, a stirring of hope in his heart. the room looked brighter. Even Wilson's red, frustrated face wasn't enough to dampen his new spirit of freedom seen though not yet in his grasp. "I told you."

"I called Lucas. You left there at one-thirty-five." Wilson held up his wrist-watch to House's face in order to drive his point home. "It's almost five AM, what the hell were you doing for the last four hours?"

House sucked in a huge breath and then let it out into Wilson's face, thus driving home his own point at how annoying Wilson was being. He slipped past his dark haired friend and mother to ease aching muscles and bones down onto the leather pads of his couch. "Any coffee?"

"Coffee? _Coffee??" _Wilson shook stiff, disapproving hands back and forth in front of him like he was trying to ward off a landing jetliner. "No, no coffee until you tell me where you were and what you were doing."

House rolled his head from left to right on the back of the couch, so he could follow Wilson's erratic pacing. "You know, you're ugly when you love me."

Wilson stopped and dropped his arms. It was true enough. "Okay, yes, I admit, I'm over-reacting. But I _do_ love you and that's why I was worried, and _that's_ why you owe me an explanation." When Wilson got nothing from House, his face fell from one of irked to one of sick disappointment. "You didn't go to see-"

"-I went to talk to the _kid_." House said, putting Wilson's mind, he hoped, at ease. "I wanted to know if he was going to help me pull the smugness out from under Royston."

Wilson stopped, thinking for a few seconds. Then - "Oh." He sat beside House on the couch, utterly exhausted, and not just because he hadn't had much sleep. "what did he say?"

"He said he's going to think about it."

"Oh."Wilson tried to sound hopeful. "Well, that's better than nothing."

"Since nothing's completely useless, I suppose you're right. How many nights did you pay for his hotel by the way?"

"Um, six, I think."

House did a mental calculation. Two days and nine hours or so from that moment, the maid was going to enter the kid's room and discover more than just a few cockroaches doing the backstroke in the toilet.

Wilson asked "Why?"

"Hm?"

"Why did you want to know?" Wilson asked again.

"No reason."

Wilson got up and stretched. "Well, I'm going to go get the last two hours of sleep this night has left in it. You coming?"

House shook his head. "Gotta' get to work - I have a patient."

Wilson watched his beleagered friend slip on his leather jacket once more. "_You_ could use some sleep, you know."

"I know."

"House..."

House tied his shoes, took up his cane but paused at the door. "Wilson, I gotta' go." But he made himself turn around when his lover, his actual, wanted lover, walked over to him.

"You won't ever see Royston again, will you?"

"I said I wouldn't, and I won't."

Wilson slipped his arms around House's waist. He was not going to let him leave until he believed it was the truth. "Promise? I want you to _promise_." Wilson kissed him once on the mouth. "And I mean _really_ promise, not the House kind of promise which is just a wacky word game for us foolish, trusting souls."

House squirmed under his friend's close scrutiny and his iron grip. "You're bending my ribs."

"Still waiting."

House sighed. "Obviously I'm not getting out of here until I do the Boy Scout thingy, so.." House bent the little finger of his right hand double against his palm, placed his other three straightened fingers at his forehead in a mocking approximation of a Boy Scout salute, clicked his heels and recited: "On my honor, I will do my best to do my duty to Wilson and my country; to help other people; to keep myself mentally strong and morally straight. Therefore, from this moment forward, I, Gregory House, will no longer drop my pants for my big, bad Scout Master, no matter _how_ much money he gives me. _Amen!"_

Wilson smiled a little while doing his best to keep the eyebrows scrunched, for political correctness' sake. "Okay then. Go save a life."

-

XXXX

TBC asap


	10. Chapter 10

**EVEN TRADE**

**Part XI**

By GeeLady

Pairing: H/OMC, W/OFC & H/W

Ratings: NC-17 Adult, SLASH, ANGSTY. (What _else_ have you ever got from me??)

Warnings: Non-con, blackmail, mentions of addictions, drugs, self-harm.

Summary: House becomes the object of someone's dangerous obsession, but it's _Wilson's_ freedom that hangs in the balance.

**This Story**: I started writing before I saw episode 6x10, and it acknowledges everything up to and including "Wilson", with the exception of Wilson and House going in together on the loft Cuddy didn't get. In my fic', they are not living together and it continues to deviate from there.

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XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The life he intended to save was Wilson's and so, by default, his own.

House took the elevator to the floor just below the one where Nilu was hanging in his room, dead. He walked up the stairs one floor, arriving at Nilu's floor with only minimal extra leg cramping for his effort. He would leave the same way, and try to make sure he was seen (if anyone proved to be awake and wandering this early in the day) entering the elevator on the floor below the floor where Nilu had off-ed himself.

House entered the dead kid's hotel room once more, threw the bolt over on the door to keep out any stray human accidents, and spent the next few minutes considering his next actions.

He had to do this right. He had to think of everything. He could miss nothing. He'd had presence of mind to fish his old, _old_ leather gloves, greasy from motor-engine oil-changes and road grime, from under the Honda's seat, and slipped them on before he had even entered the hotel. He planned to dispose of them many miles away in a gas station washroom garbage. Greasy leather gloves would not look out of place in an establishment where oil and dirt was the norm.

He'd also worn an old, none-descript base-ball cap and sunglasses, and would dispose of them with equal caution. the glasses he would smash apart, and the cap he'd leave lying on a neighborhood baseball park miles and miles away from the gloves and glasses.

He'd also entered the hotel carrying his leather jacket over his arm, with his blue over-shirt buttoned up tightly. He planned to leave wearing only his T-shirt and a casual jacket borrowed from Nilu's hotel closet - or a sweater, if the kid didn't have any jackets. He would tuck his shirt under the seat of his Honda, and put it in the wash with his other clothes tomorrow, then throw it over his bedroom chair as usual.

His cane he could do nothing about regarding some sort of disguise for it, since he needed the damn thing just to walk, but that couldn't be helped. Thankfully, he'd been distracted enough to have put his plain, curved handled-cane into service for the last few days. A thought-free, lucky decision. No unusual markings on this one. It was a cane almost anyone might own.

House had planned all of this just in case those two camera's he'd seen inside the lobby yesterday were actually working. In a cheap dump like this one, he doubted it.

But precaution was in order, because he had to do this right.

House removed his leather gloves, carefully pulled the folded up tissue from his jeans's pocket, being extra, extra careful not to get his fingers or spit on the still sticky body fluid inside the fold. Royston's mark and plenty of it.

House walked up to the kid. "Sorry, kid." He muttered as he smeared a very small amount on the palm of the kid's right hand, correctly remembered that the kid had handled his coffee cup with his right hand. "You deserve better than to have this maggot's used slime all over you, but you're dead and Wilson isn't, so I'm sure you understand." House said under his breath. "It's not like you'll be using this hand again."

He also patted the toilet tissue on one corner of the kid's stiff, purple lips, feeling a little bad about that.

Finished with the corpse, House moved to the bed and, using just a thumb and finger pinched together, rumpled the covers up more than they'd been left the previous day, so it appeared Nilu had not slept in it alone. House then applied what remained of Royston's semen over the middle part of the sheeted mattress by patting the tissue in three or four places, all close together, being extra careful not to leave any tiny bits of tissue behind. He stuffed the incriminating tissue back in his pocket.

House carefully dressed himself as he had planned, in one of Nilu's sweaters, turned his hat so it was on backwards, put on his reading glasses, tucking his sun glasses in the back pocket of his jeans. Just before he left, he dialed Royston's office twice, each time hanging up without leaving a message, then dialed Royston's home, hanging up just before Royston would have been within a few feet of reaching the receiver. House indulged in a small smile of satisfaction that he had probably woken Royston up from a sound post-blow-job slumber, or had made him scramble wet and shivering from his morning shower.

House then re-traced his steps, making sure he had forgotten nothing. The last thing he did was remove the hotel room's Do Not Disturb sign from the outer door handle and stick it under the waist band of his jeans. He would burn it because he recalled that it had his finger prints on it from his previous visit when he had come knocking, not expecting to find the kid dead, and so not anticipating the importance of not leaving behind any mark that he had ever been there. House took another Do Not Disturb sign from another door a few rooms down, turned it so the Make Up Room sign was facing out and, pausing inside the room only a moment more to make sure he had forgotten nothing, left for the hospital.

Maybe he could scare up a patient or two save.

-

-

Wilson found House at his desk with his head down, fast asleep. The airy, high pitched moan of his visitor's chair padded seat alerted House to his presence and he woke up, raising his face from the crook of his arms just enough to see who it was. "Must you squeak?"

"How long have you been here?"

"I dunno' - few hours. What time is it?"

"Eleven-twenty. Your team's down in the clinic, doing your hours."

"Very brown-nosing of them."

"I think they were bored. Plus you look like hell and, " Wilson paused for emphasis. "You have no case." He searched House's face, looking for the lie. "Why did you say you did?"

"I figured I would have by now. My last one went home two days ago."

"I know you're lying." Wilson swallowed his rising fear, hoping against hope that House had not gone against his word and had seen Royston last night, who by now would be back in town. "Where were you?"

House groaned, stretched and leaned back in his chair. "I went to see the kid again. I was hoping he'd changed his mind."

"Did he?"

"Nope."

"Then where'd you go?"

House turned his head aside, though his eyes never left Wilson's face. "Is this a portend of things to come? Are you going to question me every time I leave our apartment? Spy on me with your ex-wife's opera glasses? Bug my underwear?"

"No." Wilson was trying hard not to turn into a seething tree of suspicious, twitching, jealousy, but where House and Royston was concerned - where Royston was putting his hands and other organs on House was concerned - it was pretty damn hard not to. Wilson felt some small comfort in that House had said "their apartment". That was a very, very good sign. It warmed Wilson inside, a little. It helped cool the burning envy that filled his heart and penis. "But I hate secrecy when I know you're in trouble."

"You're the one in trouble. I'm just your last hope before that trouble stops sending notices, and instead pays a nasty visit in person, so I really feel for you."

"What are we going to do, House?"

"We're going to wait."

"Wait? You want to just..._wait_?"

"Yes. It involves not doing anything. The beauty of it is, it doesn't require a manual."

"What are we waiting for?"

"For something to change."

"You can't treat something this serious like one of your puzzles."

"Sure I can. See?" House leaned back, twiddled his thumbs and looked at the ceiling as though lost in thought. He returned to his former slouch. "It's easy."

Wilson felt defeated. He felt sick. Everything was going to end, especially everything for him. He had just got House back in his life and now he was going to lose him again. It sucked so bad, he felt like crying. "I can't do that - wait around. It drives me crazy."

"Thus four ex-wives."

Wilson rubbed his eyes, his face, then dropped his hands uselessly to his lap. "I've got a patient in a few minutes."

"So you've got something to do. Go do it before you drive me crazy."

"I want to talk about this later."

"Wouldn't have doubted it for the world." With relief, House watched Wilson leave, though his friend paraded out of his office like he was bringing up the rear to his own funeral.

House was far less calm than he had let on to his nervous wreck of a friend. Under these circumstances, waiting for the phone to ring was its own kind of special funeral march. Who would it be on the other end? Lucas? Assuming Nilu had kept Lucas's business card and the police would no doubt find it - maybe. Lucas or the police. Not that House wanted the kid's death pinned on Lucas.

Why the hell had he not thought to check for Lucas's business card?

A bad slip-up that House blamed on exhaustion. Lucas being charged with suspicion in Nilu's death would be completely wrong, not to mention unfair, but it would certainly get him kicked out of Cuddy and the munchkin's life.

Then House remembered what he had, or was about to again have, with Wilson and the thought of a little revenge vanished. But for a moment there, it had wet his appetite for working some sweet evil.

Would it be Royston? More probably, yes. Once the police gathered up the sufficient, but not too abundant, evidence of Royston's semen at the scene, and traced the calls that had been placed to and from the hotel room and Nilu's cellular (none of them being from him), even a pink-faced, scared little rookie ought to be able to string it together from there.

Lucas would make up a clever reason for his calls to Nilu, and Royston wouldn't be able to explain his semen on a dead guy, thus presto! No more asshole. Even if, at that point, Royston tried to persuade the cops that he was being set up, all the investigators had to do was look into his past and they'd find Nilu there, and Nilu's secret gay life, and Nilu's ex-wife dead by suicide 'cause Royston couldn't help but be a total prick (House secretly hoped the dead ex-wife had, before her death, told her mom, her sister, her BFF, and her hair dresser all about her gay bastard of an ex-husband's secret affair with another bastard named Albert). There was enough grief and death circling Royston that he would never be able to dodge the vultures this time.

Ring you goddamn phone!

House didn't really expect it to listen, except it did and trilled in its innocently shrill way for his full attention. House's heart hammered like a school girl on a first date.

Play it as usual, House. Be yourself. Be a jerk. "What?" He said into the phone. His boredom had just been interfered with, so he would indulge whoever it was for a moment, only to pass some time. Yeah, good. That first sharp word had been jerk-perfect.

"Greg." It was Royston. House raised his fist in the air. It was a knee jerk reaction of happy. Score one for home team! The home team being him and him alone. Touchdown. Dance.

"Greg..., Jesus.."

It was Royston's voice but not suffused with his usual inflection of completely in control dick-head. "Yeah? What?" Perfect. Even ruder. _Let him think I don't care what the fuck problem he wants to discuss. _Easy because it was true. He wasn't going to bother pretending to be _that_ bored.

"The police think I killed someone. They found this kid in a hotel room. Dead. Hung himself. I _swear_ to God I didn't do it."

_Yeah, I know._ Weird. Royston was looking for his support for Christ's sake. The fucker actually thought his in-name-only boyfriend, whom he had abused and degraded for a year, was going to gladly render sympathy and support in his time of need. "Oh? Who was this former human being?" _And how inconsiderate of him to interrupt your steak sandwich and Perrier with his repulsive death._

"They think I murdered him. Oh, Greg, baby, I know I can be a bit hard sometimes, but _you_ know I'm incapable of that."

Holy man hung upon a fence post - Royston really wanted his _help_. His _moral_ support. And, of course, his mouth on his stiff penis whenever possible. Can't forget _that_ part of their tender love-affair. "What do you want _me_ to do about it?"

"I've already got a good lawyer, but would you mind coming down to the station? It'd be comforting to have you nearby."

He had to be fucking joking. "Um, let me think about that. How about - no?"

House heard the sharp inhale from the other end of the line. The phone they'd given him access to was probably one of those old-fashioned jobs hung on a wall with a twisted cord and blackened with the fingerprints of many other assholes who had passed through those halls before him. The room was probably cold, too, and the chair made of wood that would leave splinters in his pasty ass. House was ecstatic.

"But,..._no_?? Greg, I don't...understa - I _love_ you. I _know_ you feel something for me, too, and I want what we had together to continue."

"You mean the teeth marks on my back? The bloody noses? The violent rapes? Yeah, that was a real hoot for me, too." What they'd had?? They'd had some physical exchanges of sweat and other fluids. They'd had episodes of grinding against each other until they came. They'd had sex. That's it and nothing else. House felt dirty that he had ever allowed himself to feel the faintest thing for this man. He and Royston had shared shit. Not intimacy, not love-making, not even consensual sex. not even a kind word here and there.

House was rising out of an emotional pit of black, oily slime that he was itching to rise off. He wanted to feel clean again. And he could hardly wait to get Wilson alone.

"You know I never meant to hurt you."

"Fuck you, A-l-l-l-bert." House spit into the mouth piece. Even the man's name made him feel unclean now. A-l-l-l, like a groan of pain. 'Bert, like a spurt of venom. Fucking snake. "Why do they think it's you, anyway?"

"They said they found my sperm on his bed a-and on _him_. But that's impossible, there's no way - "

House heard the silence crash down in Royston's sudden pause, and felt the black electric strike of understanding that passed through him at the other end of the phone in the dirty police station holding room. Albert was slow on the uptake today. Probably the horrible thought of going to jail for the rest of his life.

"_You_...did this?"

House loved the fury mixed with fear that was choking the son-of-a-bitch's voice box. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Royston, but you always were a little screwy."

Gasps of rage and desperation were all the man had left as the terrible truth washed over and through him. House made sure his final words to his ex-bastard consisted of copious layers of smirk. "Don't bend over for the soap. Oh, wait, come to think of it, you probably will." House hung up the phone.

If the police come to question him, and they for certain would, all he needed to do was play ignorant. Since Royston had been so dead-keen on keeping their relationship secret, no one but Wilson knew of it, and there was nothing to tie him to Royston in any capacity other than an employee.

-

-

"Unless he decides to reveal your relationship with him." Wilson pointed out later as they discussed the days titillating events over some excellent coffee in the local Java-Cafe. The gossip mill around the hospital had been busy grinding out the shocking news of their Dean's arrest under suspicion of murder!

"Why would he? That just makes it obvious that he likes fucking men and beating them up, too. If it comes to that, I'll happily show them my scars courtesy of ass-pimp."

"What if he talks about Naomi?"

"Who's gonna believe him now?" House asked reasonably. "Worst case scenario, if he brings it up, then he has to bring it _all_ up. They would then question him on why he kept such information to himself. Especially the interesting fact that he threatened to ruin you if I didn't have sex with him. And then I'd casually mention that he had mentioned to me about "doing this all before" in so many carefully chosen words, with a young male nurse out west, and that would swing the conversation right back to Nilu, and the inconvenient and indisputable fact that Royston's sperm was found in the dead kid's hotel room."

Wilson appeared unconvinced. "This is incredible - and wonderful in a horrible, stomach-turning way." Still in a sweat for the future - "But Royston still has leverage."

"We have more." House answered. "Settle down, Jimmy. Wait and see."

"I don't know how you can always do that." Wilson complained.

House played with his keys on the small table. Jinging and jingling. "You need me to show you again?"

Shaking his head, Wilson tried to calm himself. House noticed Wilson's coffee cup was empty and waved for the waitress. Wilson did not fail to notice House's notice. Small gestures. House was good with those kinds of things. Always, very good at conveying what he felt in small, genuine, sometimes even sweet, ways. He loved that about House. He wouldn't mention it. That would ruin it for sure. "I can't believe Royston took up with Nilu again. It seems incredibly stupid of him. Or just outstandingly egotistical."

House swirled the grainy dregs of his own cup. "Wasn't it?"

Wilson heard the wisp of sarcasm in the question. He narrowed his eyes. What was he missing here? Some small point. "How else could they have found his semen in the room? And why kill the kid afterward? It doesn't make sense."

"There are only three things in the world Royston loves: sex, power and violence. Trust me, it makes sense."

House was staring into his cup, and Wilson wondered what he was really looking at. Or what it was he himself was failing to see. "House, what did you do?" When House didn't answer right away, Wilson said "I know you did something. You insisted that we should wait for something to change, but you don't believe in sitting back and letting Karma run the show. You don't believe in Karma at all - or the universe unfolding as it should. _You_ believe in action. So what act am I missing here?"

"Trust me, it wasn't me. It was all Nilu. He's the hero. I was just his side-kick."

"So you did something "at his side". What?"

If they were to be together, stay together, things ought to at least start off in the right place. Wilson was worth all acts, so he had to do this right. "Nilu killed himself. He was dead when I got there."

"No, Royston murdered him. they found his semen at the scene. That much at least does make sense."

"No."

"Then I'm lost. What does...?"

House sat back, putting distance between himself and the anger he figured was coming. "Royston's sperm got a little ride."

Brown eyes went from wary but curious to enlightened and in shock. "You mean, you _planted _evidence?"

House looked around at the few patrons nearby. "Maybe you could say that a little louder, so the people at the end of the counter can hear, too?"

Wilson lowered his voice. "How, wha - House - how in the world? How could you have _possibly_ managed it? I mean, did you _save_ some from one of your previous dates?"

"Yup."

Shaking his head in disbelief and confusion. "But why would you do that? Why would _anyone_ do that? How could you have known that Nilu was going to hang himself?"

"I didn't. I told you, I found him dead."

"So then, naturally, the dangerously insane idea hit you of setting an innocent man up for murder."

house's face darkened. "He wasn't _innocent_ of anything."

The rest of the previously trickling truth suddenly rushed in to fill the blank in Wilson's thoughts. "Which means you...after promising me,..after _swearing_ to me, you went to Royston that same night and,...and..."

House abandoned his empty cup to the side of the table. He nodded once. "_And_."

Wilson was about to deluge his traitorous boyfriend with all manner of reproachful censure, but he stopped when he saw House's expression was not one of smugness at saving the day, but a withered look of shame. Of personal desecration. Wilson bit his tongue at the remote grief House was trying to hide. He had broken his promise the same night he had made it, but not for any selfish physical appetites. Only to save the one thing he had left in his life that was worth humiliating himself for.

House stared at his hands, and then at Wilson. "So how mad are you. Are we through?"

Wilson didn't care who saw. He took House's rough hand in his own and held onto those calloused fingers for dear life. "No,.._no." _MiraculouslyHouse didn't pull his hand away. Wilson wanted to kiss him, but that would be pushing his luck. "_Jesus_, House, no." _Never-fucking-ever!_ "I love you, remember?"

Still it was the small, integral things with House. Tiny, honorable, _abundant_ gestures. Always.

Once in a while, though, they were staggering!

XXXXX

END.

Thanks from Genie. :)

Look for Rational Principle, Part II - _**this week also!**_

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